Everything consists of a lot of rain, a window, two numb hearts, and one emerald painting.
The first splattered down and spilled into the streets like lifeblood, as if it wished to wipe clean the world of beautiful and indestructible sin. This rain finds itself begging at the doors, hoping to forget.
In this weather, people are blind to one another, each enveloped in their own thoughts of home. A bunch of giggling and drenched students flee from the watery onslaught, rushing to the nearest lit window and exclaiming to one another that it is better than nothing, at least until the sky stops crying.
As they step in, the puddles surround them protectively. Perhaps the rain they carried in with them knew? Not unlikely. Their chatter fills the air like pretty bubbles as they look around the art gallery.
There is a girl. She sits very still, on a stool, and holds her spine away from them. The green folds of her coat are weary, creasing with age and velvet.
Like a statue, the man stands next