July 13, 2149, Hawking
Cold morning air blew inside the cavern opening, throwing drops of rain all the way to where Grant was huddled in the corner. He opened and closed his hands in a vain attempt at warming them up. The storm had raged all night, and judging by the wind and flashes of light, he had a few more hours to go before it would dissipate. The howling had raced through the valley for the first hour, and it ceased as quickly as it began. A harmony of a thousand souls, he’d thought with a shiver at the time.