For the seventh time in his life, Jean Valjean was running.
     He didn’t know where he was, nor did he care. All he knew—he was being chased, and he must get away.
     The streets were dark, the rain pouring from the inky skies above and spattering on the eerily-gleaming cobblestones as Valjean sloshed heedlessly through. The cries of his pursuers rang out behind him; faint, but wavering in volume, sometimes seemingly just around a corner, making him gasp and skid and stumble; other times, farther away so that he sped up even more to put more distance between them.
     Overhead, lightning slashed at the angry clouds, backlighting their roiling grey masses in blinding flashes like camera stills of Mother Nature’s wrath. The rain continued to come down unabated—the fugitive could feel his woolen socks soaked through already.
     Valjean whipped around a corner, felt his legs fly out from under him as he slipped in a puddle and hurtled to the ground. Gritting his teeth fiercely against the pain of his jarred bones, he quickly rolled over onto his belly and crawled back up to his feet to resume—at a swift limp now—his flight. Once or twice he nearly stopped, but instantly beat the thought far, far from his mutinous mind; no, he had to keep going, he couldn’t allow himself to be caught, there was no room for weakness now…if he were caught, they would kill him…images of various tortures seared before his bloodshot eyes, chilling his pounding blood and spurring him into a full-out sprint again.
     His hair was soaked with rain, the moisture dripping from the snowy shag and streaming in hot rivulets down his face. The rolling snarl of thunder drowned out his labored gasps for air as he ran on, adrenaline burning through his body—
     “Gotcha!”
     The dark figure leapt out from behind a corner, and with a strangled yell Valjean collided with him. No, no, no…he couldn’t; this couldn’t be happening, not again, not after all he’d done…been through, they’d kill him, they’d kill everyone, they’d flay him with the cat until his skin was in ribbons, crank him in the rack ‘til his joints popped—
     “No!” he gasped wildly, shoving up at the shadowy form. “I can’t go back, I can’t, I won’t—!”
     “Papa, what are you doing? Stop!” His attacker grabbed his wrists with surprisingly small, cool hands; he wrenched away. “Papa, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”
     “A night—! Nightmare…?” the old man sputtered, blinking hard and feeling his eyes burn as sweat dripped into them. He reached up and swiped the back of his hand across his brow, then ran his palm down his face and looked up.
     He was in his darkened bedroom. The small window next to his bedside was open, the sheer lace curtains rippling in the rainy wind of the storm outside. Valjean’s tired eyes slid from the window to the foot of his bed, where his daughter crouched. “Cosette,” he mumbled, still a bit disoriented.
     “Papa,” she whispered in reply, stretching out a small and delicate hand to gently brush aside his wet bangs. “Are you alright? You were having a nightmare.” She gazed intensely at him, her smooth forehead creased with concern.
     Her father’s dark umber irises were still hazy as he blinked slowly. “Everyone has bad dreams, dearest one,” he murmured, his voice rusty with sleep. “No need to fret over me.”
     “Oh, but I do! You know that,” Cosette protested. “You act indifferent when I show how I care for you, but then you seem so lonely otherwise.”
     “Your boy Marius—is he indifferent? No, of course he is not,” Valjean remarked bitterly. “He is a young stag, full of enigma and vim, not at all like an old man whose best times are spent poring over a garden, whose bones ache with the spring rains.”
     Catching the gall in his tone, Cosette sighed deeply. “But that same old man whose bones ache with the rains is also the only one who truly takes the time to note the beauty and peace of nature—he taught his young daughter to appreciate every flowering bud, every green blade of grass—“ her eyes drifted to the open window—“every raging storm.” She rose and extended a hand toward him. “Come, Papa, take a turn with me.”
     “Outside?” Valjean stammered incredulously.
     “Yes, outside,” the young woman responded with a patient little smile. “Come on, it will do you a world of good.”
     Valjean obediently threw aside his covers to take Cosette’s hand and let her lead him out of doors, into the garden. The rosebushes were a shapeless mass against the bruised grey-green-blue night sky, the precipitation slapping hard against the leaves of his carefully-trimmed bushes. Valjean tipped back his head and parted his lips, sighing blissfully as the cool rain hit his face to wash away the film of clammy sweat and, with it, the lingering phantoms of his nightmares.
     Looking on beside him, Cosette smiled. “See, I told you.”
     “I never said I didn’t think it would,” her father said cheekily, rubbing his bare feet in the cold, sopping grass. “Sometimes, a storm is just what you need to rid yourself of the ones deep inside you.”
     “You are one of the wisest men I know,” Cosette told him.
     “I’ve tried to be the only man you know, but that it seems that Monsieur Pontmercy foiled my plans on that case,” Valjean snipped, giving her hand a light squeeze to let her know he was teasing.
     Cosette laughed and suddenly whirled to face him, putting her hand on his shoulder and taking his other. “Dance with me, Papa.”
     Silently Valjean laced the fingers of his right hand with hers, placing his left on the small of her back. The rolling thunder and pattering rain served as their orchestra as he began to lead her in a slow waltz, the throbbing timpani of the thunderclaps reverberating through their very beings as, above them, the sky opened its heavy grey eyes and wept.