Wilbur sat beneath a sprawling tree, just barely shielded from the rain as it poured down around him. His yellow sweater was damp, and he shivered a bit, but a grin tugged at his lips. The guitar in his lap had seen better days, its wood darkened by water spots, yet he strummed it anyway, filling the air with a soft, lazy tune.

“Look at me,” he chuckled to himself, running a hand through his wet hair, which immediately flopped back into his eyes. “Sittin’ out here like some tragic poet in the rain. Only thing missin’ is a crowd of woodland animals, hanging on my every word.”

He plucked at a few off-key notes, shaking his head as if scolding himself. “Honestly, Wilbur,” he muttered, voice laced with mock seriousness, “could’ve stayed inside. Could’ve been dry. But nooo, you had to be ‘mysterious’ and ‘brooding.’ Real good life choices there, mate.”

With a sigh, he leaned back against the tree, letting his eyes drift up to the cloudy sky. “Alright, rain,” he said, voice softening, “if you’re gonna keep me company tonight, least you could do is give me a bit of inspiration, yeah?”