He had painted the picture of nothing but a solitary teardrop on a piece of black carbon paper. On the other side of the paper he had laid down the river.

Night bloomed in the river, that morning. Reflected onto the air above. Paintbrushed into a random breeze.

She woke up that morning into the dark, tear-strained. She knew at the primacy of her senses, that this wasn’t an eclipse. It was blindness. One of those denser forms of darkness where you can’t see anything even when you close your eyes. For it pours into your nervous system. She’d never see him again.

Standing there on the riverbank, he realized she’d never be able to comprehend his gift. Or understand it.

He tore off his tear.