The lonely light house was once functional. Now, amidst the rubble, only the glass dome of the light remained, festered with vines and thick vegetation. Bright lights of the sun fingered through the little vestiges – pushing their way into more green until their golden light was painted green.
All day, they played peek-a-boo with the broken glass, the overgrown jungle and the rusty direction pole. The sea used to be clear, and azure many thousand years ago – but now only sign of blue was on the farthest – close to the horizon. What remained near was a pile of monochrome gloom. Abundance of gray and black and brown clog.
The little monarch butterfly was resting on a leaf.
“Who built this thing here?” She asked the vagabond millipede.
“Dead. All dead.” he replied, resigned.
The air was heavy all of a sudden. The vagabond noticed it first.
“Time for you to fly home” he said, “The storm is coming”
She looked at the sky as well. The bright blue sky was changing into the same color as the water below it.
“I wonder what happened to them” She uttered, before stretching her wings and diving for a flight.
“They wanted to play God” The millipede had receded, furling into a roll.
The first drops of rain started to rattle through the leaves and the rubble, wetting whatever they touched. Soon, the storm approached.
When the rainbow rose on the crimson sky later that day, there was no sign of the lighthouse anymore. The jungle, the sky above it, the valley ending into the sea, the distant white peaks – they all remained the same. Only the brick and mortar structure vanished, like the ones who had built them.
..everything, but a little brick, on which a little robin sat and sang.