Sinead sat on the damp hillside; her raincoat pulled tight against the biting wind. Below her, the valley spread out like a painting, though today, it was more of a watercolour—a blur of greys and greens, with streaks of brown from the churning floodwaters. The river, once a slender ribbon that meandered lazily through the farmland, had swollen into a monstrous force, spilling over its banks and devouring everything in its path.
She had grown up in this valley. Her childhood memories were tethered to its rolling fields, quiet woods, and the gentle murmur of the stream that had once been the lifeblood of the community. Now, the stream was unrecognisable, transformed into a violent torrent. The once-vivid patchwork of crops was submerged under murky water, and the red roofs of farmhouses jutted out like desperate cries for help.
Sinead pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them as she watched the floodwaters creep higher. A lone oak tree stood at the edge of the rising tide, its roots exposed, clawing at the earth in a futile attempt to hold on. She wondered how much longer it would last. How much longer any of them would last.
The news had been relentless—climate change, melting ice caps, rising seas. She had listened to the warnings, seen the charts, heard the desperate pleas from scientists. But it had always felt distant, an abstract problem for future generations. Now, sitting on this sodden hillside, the reality was undeniable. This was what it looked like when the waters rose. Not a sudden, catastrophic event, but a slow, insidious encroachment. A drowning that took years.
Sinead’s mind wandered to the stories her grandmother used to tell, about a time when the seasons were predictable, and the world felt stable. Back then, floods were rare, and when they came, they were manageable—a temporary inconvenience, not a harbinger of doom. Her grandmother had passed on before the worst of it, and Sinead was grateful for that. She couldn’t imagine the heartbreak of watching the land you’d nurtured your whole life disappear beneath the waves.
A gull cried overhead, its voice sharp and mournful. Sinead tilted her head up to watch it circle, a solitary speck against the leaden sky. It would find little comfort here—no dry land, no safe haven. Just like the people who had fled the valley, cramming their belongings into cars and vans, leaving behind homes they might never return to.
Sinead had stayed. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was stubbornness, or maybe she felt some sense of duty to witness the valley’s final days. She’d walked through the abandoned streets, the echoes of her footsteps unnerving in the silence. She’d stood in the doorways of empty homes, their walls still bearing the marks of lives once lived—family photographs, children’s drawings, the faint smell of cooking that lingered in the air. It was as if the valley itself was holding its breath, waiting.
The first drops of rain began to fall, gentle at first, then heavier, drumming on her hood. Sinead didn’t move. She couldn’t. The rain was just another part of the cycle, feeding the flood, filling the valley, erasing what little remained.
She thought about the future. Would there even be one? Would people adapt, find new ways to live, or would they become like the gull—adrift, searching for something that no longer existed? She wanted to hope, to believe that humanity could rise to the challenge, but the evidence around her was damning. They had known this was coming, and they had done so little to stop it.
The water reached the oak tree, lapping at its trunk. Sinead watched as the roots began to give way, the mighty tree swaying, then toppling, crashing into the flood with a final, deafening splash. She closed her eyes, the sound reverberating in her chest.
When the waters rise, she thought, they take everything. And yet, they leave you with the weight of what could have been.
From a writing prompt about inclement weather