It’s like it was determined to hit him. Crush him, pound and soak him until he fell: The rain. It was impossible to avoid, especially on this stormy night, especially for the lone moth flying through it with undeniable persistence. Exhaustion coated him thickly, like oil. It lathered him from the very core of his body to the very tip of his wings. It was those wings that carried him through this storm, but it was his black eyes that saw the stream of light oozing from a small crack in a high building.
It shone like a stagnant, grisly puddle, too thick and riddled with impurities to reach a long distance. Those before him wouldn’t have followed it, it’s not the kind of light you follow… But what choice did he have?