Mizzle (verb): to rain in fine drops

As soon as the timer was up, the fine mist rained down again.

The vegetables in the grocery store’s produce aisle once again took on a new sheen, glittering with droplets from the fountain of life. It was as if their leaves turned green once more, their lives lengthened again.

A little child rushed over, amazed at the artificial rain. Her parents smiled behind her shoulders, telling her that the mist kept the vegetables fresh.

Tap.

The gentle rain was gone as quickly as it came.

With the sparkling curtain of mist now lifted, the child eagerly picked at the vegetables. Large ones, small ones, half-snapped leaves, her innocent hands dropped everything into their shopping cart.

An old lady several yards away chuckled at the goofy youth. Her skillful hands effortlessly grabbed the most delicate and fresh of the leafy greens, but she knew she was just as silly as the little girl a long time ago.

The customers left after a while, and the misters came on again.

Even though the vegetables were bowing down as their life flowed out of their cut stalks, the rain brought an energetic, vigorous look to their colors.

The plants themselves were well aware that the fake rain did nothing to actually rejuvenate their stems. Like the old lady, the thin and graceful mist was not going to turn them back into the young girl.