It is a dark and dreary night, one where even the moon has taken refuge behind the dark clouds. There is a slight drizzle, and a heavy wind threatens to break the strongest trees in sight. Every now and then the sky is illuminated by shards of lightning, which recede as quickly as they come, leaving the night shrouded in desolate darkness once again. The rumble of thunder soon follows, and retreats immediately. The blood curdling howls of lonely wolves pierce the night.
A lone figure walks through the night, unfazed by the darkness surrounding it. The figure is covered in a dark cloak, and walks slowly, as if it is tired and weary. But the footsteps of this lonely figure seem sure, as if it treads familiar path. The brief flash of lightning illuminates the face of this figure ever so briefly – the man seems young, but his face appears weary, as if he has passed through a lot of anguish, both mental and physical. The most shocking feature of his bearded face is his eyes – those dead, lifeless eyes.
He walks down the broken road leading up to a towering mansion. The brief flashes of lightning illuminate the silhouette of the mansion, and highlight the lack of a boundary wall – for what glorious mansion lacks a wall? Only one which accepts all visitors. The man slowly approaches the front door of the mansion. The towering oak doors stand firm in front of him. He raises his hand to knock – and he eyes the engraved name next to the door – “WordPress”. He places his hand on the door, and knocks in a specific sequence – one that would seem gibberish to any passers-by, but which had a very special meaning for him.
The man steps back after knocking, waiting anxiously. His face seems even more weary and rugged. The rain starts to gain strength and he wraps his cloak even tighter. The oak doors slide upon with remarkable ease, but the interior remained dark. A voice calls from within – “After how many years?”
The cloaked man shivers – from the cold or from the memories, one cannot tell. “Four”, he responds.
“More than four”, comes the voice from within the mansion.
“Perhaps”, says the cloaked man. “Am I still allowed inside?”
“Enter”, commands the shapeless voice. “But know that no one here expects you to stay”
The cloaked man drags his body unsteadily past the threshold, and the oak doors swing shut. But not before the shapeless voice calls out into the mansion
“The prodigal son has returned. Again”