September 2005: The Martian

By Ray Bradbury

The blue mountains lifted into the rain and the rain fell down into the long canals and old LaFarge and his wife came out of their house to watch.
"First rain this season," LaFarge pointed out.
"It’s good," said his wife.
"Very welcome."
They shut the door. Inside, they warmed their hands at a fire. They shivered. In the distance, through the window, they saw rain gleaming on the sides of the rocket, which had brought them from Earth.
"There‘s only one thing," said LaFarge, looking at his hands.
"What’s that?" asked his wife.
"I wish we could have brought Tom with us."
"0h, now, Lafe!"
"I won’t start again; I'm sorry."
"We came here to enjoy our old age in peace, not to think of Tom. He‘s been dead so long now, we should try to forget him and everything on Earth."
"You‘re right," he said, and turned his hands again to the heat. He gazed into the fire. "I won‘t speak of it any more. It‘s just I miss driving out to Green Lawn Park every Sunday to put flowers on his marker. It used to be our only excursion."
The blue rain fell gently upon the house.
At nine o‘clock they went to bed and lay quietly, hand in hand, he fifty-five, she sixty, in the raining darkness.
"Anna?" he called softly.
"Yes?" she replied.
"Did you hear something?"
They both listened to the rain and the wind.