The Umbrella

It was a Friday when the storm came. It battered the old school building, shaking the walls and tearing at the roof like a starved beast. Inside, rain streamed from cracks in the ceiling onto open exercise books and abandoned desks.

It was a pleasant spring morning when Mysto the Munificent arrived at the orphanage. The children had probably seen him coming; the top of his pointed hat always bobbed up and down above the garden wall long before he reached the gate. He walked up the path, his heavy blue robes brushing past thickets of unkempt grass. Reaching the grand old doors, he raised a bony finger and rang the doorbell. A great din arose within.