Outside the basement window stands a plant. Small, alone, his fingers barely reach the cemented walls of the well, and he wonders at his significance. The sky is miserly. She gives her rain to him reluctantly, even though there's plenty for the ungrateful umbrellas.
And yet the plant has just enough to quench his thirst. Every day he continues to grow longer and stretch farther so that one day, he might touch the algae-stained walls. One day he will rise above his narrow cell and see other plants, he decides. On that day he will not be alone anymore, and he will jump and shout when the wind waves through his limbs.
But that day is not here yet. He still has growing to do. And even though he doesn't know it, the plant is making life beautiful for the people in the window. His young fingers, untouched by the dangerous elements above, paint fiery red streaks across the windowpane. The rain has kept people inside today, but he reminds them that it's autumn in England.