He drew, since always, but he drew on ground that was wet with the smell of soaked mud. She drew too, what he drew; but her art was wavy and shades of black.
Each rain he stepped out onto a barren piece of land and sketched lines of purpose, lines that promised time. She sat a distance and drew lavish visions of gray. His seat by the river was her haven, only the colour of leaves changed. Lines burried deeper into snow as he walked to a promise. Lines burried deeper as she lingered to a hope.
His road back was blurry. The promise of time eroded his purpose.
She feared that she drew better.