The Weatherman

Part 1

The Weatherman was always lonely. He didn't mind it, but he was always lonely.

He saw thousands of people every day, but not one of them ever saw him. Never once, though, did he complain that there was no one to talk to or smile with.

Instead, he chose to find his happiness in the joy of everyone he helped. His work always gave people what they wanted, and that brought the Weatherman the only satisfaction he found important. Looking at the joy-warmed faces of everyone he provided for and standing just out of sight in order to hear the laughter (or the muffled tears) of each person he blessed with his art was all he wanted in return.

The Weatherman remembered everyone. Each and every name brought a smile to his face as memories of times when he helped them to laugh or helped them to mourn came flowing back to him like the clearest spring water; trickling into his head freely as he allowed them to take his mind away in any direction they chose.

He'd been around since long before anyone remembered, and had learned the perfect gift for every situation. He knew which couples needed rain under which to share their first kiss. He knew which mourners needed great storms to show that someone was watching over them. He knew which picnics needed a friendly dose of sunshine, and he knew which friendships needed that perfect type of sunset to end that perfect type of day.

Seeing everyone individually made the weatherman feel like he knew them as friends. He'd seen the deepest of emotions in those who hid it away; being too afraid to show weakness, and seen the strongest of wills broken by hearts harder than stones. Never once, as he watched everyone else though, did The Weatherman realise that no one had ever seen him. He was so used to hiding himself away while he helped their feelings that he was never aware of how no one had ever seen his feelings.

As years of his life went by, (more than the Weatherman could count) endless numbers of people drifted through his life. He kept giving his gifts away, but with each new face, he felt a little less pleased by his work. No one ever thanked him. Some people barely even paid attention.

Slowly, while the years pressed on, the Weatherman grew sad. He no longer took time to craft the gifts that he had once given so proudly. He began to let the rain fall as it desired, leaving the sun to fight for attention behind gloomy clouds, who gradually began to take over an increasingly mournful sky. The Weatherman sat alone on a rusty park bench and allowed himself to grow old, staring blankly at the people passing by with each mocking new day.

Everyone eventually looked the same to him, and no longer did he know who to give the sun, and no longer did he know who to give the storms, and perhaps the saddest of all:

No longer did he care.

***

More years passed, and the rusty park bench began to age and decay even more. In the time that the Weatherman spent wasting away on the aging planks, no one ever sat beside him. The world became too busy to stop and rest. No one allowed themselves the time to watch nature go by instead of allowing the hands of their clocks to go spinning wildly out of control.

As the life of the little bench drew close to its end, the Weatherman noticed a change. It took him months to understand it, but when it finally caught his attention, he began to wonder when it had first appeared.

What the Weatherman noticed was that every afternoon, a young girl, no more than nineteen years of age, would come and sit beside him on the bench. She would always sit contentedly on the free space and watch the world move around her in silence, taking time to be still for a small part of each day. She would sometimes sit with a flask of coffee, sometimes with a book, and occasionally she would bring with her a small book into which she would sketch little things she could see around her on the grass or in the lake across the path.