A Stormy Night at the Cross
The sky was a tumultuous canvas, painted with shades of deep purple and inky black. Thick, roiling clouds churned overhead, their edges illuminated by flashes of blinding lightning. In the midst of this tempest, a solitary stone cross stood tall and defiant, its silhouette stark against the dramatic backdrop.
Beneath the cross, a lone figure stood, their form barely visible in the dim light. They were a small figure, dwarfed by the towering cross and the raging storm. Yet, there was a sense of peace about them, a quiet strength that belied the chaos around them.
As a particularly violent bolt of lightning struck nearby, illuminating the figure in a brief flash of light, it was clear that they were a young woman. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved in silent prayer. She seemed utterly serene, as if the storm raging around her was merely a distant backdrop to a much more profound inner peace.
The storm raged on for what felt like hours, but the young woman remained steadfast. When the first rays of dawn began to pierce the darkness, the storm finally began to subside. The clouds parted, revealing a sky painted in hues of pink and orange. The young woman opened her eyes and smiled. As the sun rose higher, casting its warm light upon the cross, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the stillness of the morning air.