Grambleton shut the door of his cottage and shook his coat of the rain that coated it. Another day of these Autumn Storms! Every year he would forget their ferocity and then be caught unawares. Usually it was not too bad but this season was somethin’ fierce.

His cottage sat at the end of Crickadiller Lane, one of the less-trafficked alleys in Gilba Gilba and Grambleton liked it that way. He preferred the quieter side of the quiet village. Gilba Gilba was quaint and he enjoyed the quaintness. Get yourself right on outta here if you come back with a disagreement.

He hung his robe or coat or whatever he was wearin’ on the hook next to the door and lit his cottage lanterns. He’d built this structure all on his own! Well, along with a few hired hands who’d done most of the work but that was their job. Nice cozy cabin here on Crickadiller Lane.

Thunder rumbled as Grambleton heated some water. His dog, Ol’ Cappleton, raised his head in greeting. “Aye lad,” he said. “Another one of them days.” Ol’ Cappleton went back to sleep as Grambleton settled in.

All sorts of activity in Gilba Gilba of late, Grambleton thought with a distraction. He took note of the increasing foot traffic that went to and fro outta Blom’s place, that Ragged Maiden. Grambleton didn’t know what to make of that establish. Always suspected it for some reason or another but had no reason to, owin’ to the fact that there weren’t much to be said for the damage it were doin’ to the town. By all accounts Blom and Glen’s arrival in this quaintly quaintness had been seen as a rather positive thing, but as a lifer here in Gilba Gilba, Grambleton had a burned-in suspicion of newcomers whenever they set foot around here.

“Aye, just as well,” muttered he, wincing as his achin’ bones flared up and the shooters in his arms turned red-orange again. Ol’ Cappleton growled in his sleep.

More thunder blew right through and the lightning flashed in regular intervals that lit up the city. Grambleton sipped his hot water with a grimace and peered out of his rain-streaked window, the scene outside blurry and gray. All of his friends were dead. Jee Banferd was the last of ‘em, found last week on his porch rocker, struck down by some sorta affliction. Grambleton had nothin’ much to offer to Jee’s family, owin’ to the fact that Jee had no family. None worth knowin’ that is. His daughter was away in the Northern Reaches, but she had disavowed her relation to Ol’ Jee and it was a point of pain that nobody much liked pokin’. Better just to forget her.

Grambleton clutched his tankard o’ hot water, rememberin’ what it was like to be young and full of ideas. Back when he had some friends to trade blows and opinions with, back when he figured voicin’ your thoughts made a difference o’ some sort. He wasn’t sure where all those fiery views were supposed to take him but with some regret he often wondered if it wasn’t supposed to be a lonely cottage at the end o’ Crickadiller Lane.