Her hands always seemed to be moving. She talked and waved her hands around, and as she got older, I had Jaken teach her some busy work. She made blankets and she painted pictures of the world she never was a part of.

“You know,” I said lazily, as if I didn’t care, “you could leave anytime you wanted.”

She paused before setting down her paintbrush and looking at me thoughtfully.

“I know . . . but I don’t think I could.”

She went back to painting. I went back to thinking. If someone painted a picture of us, they’d have our essence.

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More microfiction for my darlings. For those of you wondering where the hell I've been, I don't quite know either. However, a link to my fiction status can be found in my profile, for those who still have hope.