The day was a blank canvas before her. The colors oozing in from every corner, every wrinkle of her life. She wanted to reach, to stretch, to fight for the colors.

But that day she chose black.

And beneath a thinly veiled fog of sadness, she fell asleep. Pressing, heavy, sleep.

In that blanket she discovered flowers. Or so did the little girl with the golden hair. Her eyes, fruit shaped, full of promise.

Whispers by an unknown. Perhaps the owl perched on the second branch.  

Whispers.

Tomorrow will always come, she said out loud. Only to the sky. No one else was listening. For the girl said only what was already known.

And what was already known was written in the black.

Awake, she closed her eyes.