"And now, the Weather."

A large, philosophical pyramid sits in the middle of the Beatrix Loman memorial meditation zone. On low-wave frequencies, it emits thoughtful, careful messages. Most of the town, numb to such occurrences, are not listening to this. They are listening to the Weather.

Old Woman Josie rocks in her old mahogany chair, watching reruns of Frasier. She listens, nodding eyelids shut peacefully, as she gently nods. The angels listen with her, too.

Brad, the intern, slowly strokes the gently revolving Koshekh as he leans against the chipped sink of the mens' bathroom. His strokes reach a rhythm as he listens, earphones in one ear, to the wheezing, strangely comforting sound of the accordion, the purring of the floating cat a subtle background.

Even Steve Carlsburg, lounging in his tan Corrola in the parking lot, listens. Although just for the Weather. Cecil would probably cease to air the broadcast if he knew.

'One day, the snow began to fall, and slowly, inch by inch it covered up the earth'

Carlos – the beautiful, perfect Carlos – places his pen down upon the notebook in which he has written and crossed out and written again all of his findings, all of his theories about this strange, scientifically impossible town, for the last few hours. He, too, is listening as he works. Or was working; now he stops, now he stares out the window of this makeshift office, gazes – no, observes, for every action is focused, attentive – stares up at the sky over Night Vale.

Tonight the Glow Cloud is not there.

Now it is snowing.

It is July.

'Til' finally, the top of the tallest building, was lost beneath a powdered sea, as quiet as a shadow's grave.'

He cannot quite believe his eyes – this scientist, who always trusted his senses, who always believed the results and lived by logic. But once again, this town defies the impossible. Not only is it July, but it most definitely was not snowing a moment ago, and for goodness sake, we're in the middle of a desert.

'And we say that the world isn't dying'

His eyes flicker at once to the radio. It's impossible. This town makes him want to scream.

'And we pray that the world isn't dying'

The Weather. The weather. You idiot, Carlos…

'Cause maybe the world isn't dying'

And now it is his mind which flicks back; back to earlier in the broadcast which he absolutely, definitely, under no circumstances, has heard every two weeks since he came here. Admittedly he didn't expect such a reaction over his hair being trimmed, nor did he wish such punishment upon Telly the barber, but there was something about Cecil's triumphant tone which undoubtedly caused a smile to appear at the corner of his mouth upon hearing such a report.

'Maybe she's heavy with child.'

The members of the wheat and wheat by-products quarantine, hidden deep beneath the community library, pause their game of Trivial Pursuit a moment to listen to the soulful Weather.

Even the hooded figures in the Dog Park which does not, in any circumstance, exist, listen for a moment, although they have no radios and can only sing along in low, haunting moans.

He cannot quite explain why he is walking like this, so purposefully through the snow, through the snowflakes that continue to drift out of the sky and land on his perfect, mercilessly shorn hair that all the town's residents secretly stare out of the window to contemplate at Cecil's encouragement. But he arrives, before the weather ends, at the door to the radio station, just across the street. He was certain it was not there this morning.

The door is unlocked. He opens it, somewhat tentatively, praying that he will not face an encounter with station management. He does not. Nor is he faced with an intern.

Cecil sits at his desk, hurriedly scribbling down notes from a message received entirely in braille. He, too, headphones clamped firmly on his head, listens to the weather which he chooses so carefully each night. And maybe he is aware of the flakes that are falling out of the sky at this moment, like the dandruff of some sinister cosmic entity, but he is not aware of the scientist who opens the door behind him; who appears at the window of the recording booth and knocks on the pane.

He'd be startled, if it were somewhere else. As it is, he turns around, hoping that the remains of the last intern are not being brought back from the large philosophical pyramid.

It is not.

'I've been looking at the symptoms for a while.'

And it is as if his every Christmas has come at once; you can see his face light up.

'Maybe she's heavy with child.'

The Weather ends. The snow disappears; a snow which, in any case, never existed. The town pretends to sleep. The hooded figures moan a little quieter. In the radio station, Carlos and Cecil sit together, silently, nothing more. His face is aglow as he finishes the report; he stares at the beautiful perfect man next to him with a happiness that transforms his face as he says the parting words.

"Goodnight, Night Vale."

He smiles. A little awkwardly, the scientist smiles back – he just wanted answers to the strange case of the weather, after all. At least, that's what he says. But it's a smile, nonetheless.

"Goodnight."