Storm in the City
Note: Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their writing prompt 'The Downpour'
Ellie was staring at the closed ice cream parlour, the fading sign above reading "Ichabod's". It had been a fixture of social life on this block, first a bar at the forefront of the fad of mixology, a fancy flash-in-the-pan attempt to make new drinks from any and every liquor and whatever ingredients you had to hand, and then as the parlour as Ichabod was a teetotaler. In his own words, "From a tawdry den of sin to a family-run centre of wholesome life and little joys." A quote ran in just about every paper in the city, some celebrating the push towards temperance, others scowling at the moralising nature of the enterprise. Scowls that didn't last long as whether you liked liquor or thought it was the bottled sweat of Satan himself, Ichabod's Ice cream, freshly made before your eyes in nearly any flavour you could name, was close as any bartender could come to ambrosia.
And now it sat empty, as drained of life as the man who owned it. The deaths of his children had destroyed his zest for living, and he wasn't alone in mourning. Everyone knew someone who went off to that dreadful war, a war that claimed as yet uncounted souls for death's embrace. Ichabod was too old himself but had 5 sons, who gladly sent themselves to defend what they loved. Only one had come home missing his right hand, much of his left leg, and any enthusiasm for life. Both were shadows of themselves, waning and waiting for something neither could describe.
The victory was declared two days past, and while there were celebrations, now the city mourned all that had been lost. Even the sky was spending the time crying, relief at peace sliding into grief.