“Mm, perhaps,” Malachi replied, unconvinced. “Storm clouds are more of a gray though, don’t you think?”

They had never struck him as all that scary, either, but he was used to them. Perhaps they weren’t as common where Mable had grown up, or they could have been all too common. He enjoyed the rain; the gray-tinted overcast, the scent of wet stones and soil, the sound of it raining down against the rooftops.

His fingers wiggled where she touched his hand, before settling down over hers. The hotel was in sight up ahead, and farther down the street, he knew the sleeping church awaited.

“What other colors do you like, then? Or are none of them comparable with green?”