Pitter, patter, pitter, patter. Raindrops continuously hit the glass window, making a soft, soothing sound. The thuds and splashes were calming, slowly easing the mind. There was loud chatter in the background, but it all seemed to fade, slowly and slowly. The giddy chatter morphed into talking, which then turned into quiet, faint whispers. And through the sound of the quiet whispers, you could see the boy. There he lay, in his bed, flipping through the pages and steadily reading his novel. It was as if the gray, shadowy sky had entranced the boy. It was like magic. The cold air from outside seeping in, the light breeze that slowly rustled the leaves, and the raindrops that kept on hitting the glass window. The pitter, patter, pitter, patter. 

He laid his stomach down on the mattress, with his nose an inch from the thin pages of the novel. It was like reality had all but dissipated for him. There was no sense of time, nothing to be seen outside the pages of the book, and nothing to be heard except the faint pitter, patter, pitter, patter. 

His body was tired, sinking slowly into the bed, but his mind was racing with thoughts and ideas. It was strange, but fascinating to be so absorbed. So absorbed that there was no awareness of the outside world. Finally, he flipped to the last page and got out of his bed. He saw his desk and bookshelf and bed. The quiet whispers became louder and louder until they became giddy chatter again. He looked out his window and saw the gray clouds were subsiding. The magic spell of the dark clouds was wearing off, as the sun was slowly emerging from the gray shadows. All the rain and wind had ceased, and when he looked out his window, he heard the last raindrops. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.