The pungent stench of alcohol had not left the room for a week, but the sole inhabitant of the house paid it no heed. Amid the glass shards on the floor and the wild splashes of paint on the walls, it was hard to spot the figure, but he was there, right in the middle.

Colours swirled around his being, as the artist wandered through his own mind, wondering about many things. He had lost himself in his art and he had lost himself in her, and he would never find himself again. Days later, someone would find the artist in shape and form, but lifeless, somewhere in the busy city.

Outside, in a small street, the rain poured without remorse, and pedestrians scrambled to get to warmth and comfort. People nudged her out of the way, not sparing her a second glance, for people never do. Even after the splashes of puddles under people’s feet faded away, and the entire street was deserted, she remained. She tuned out the sounds of buses and cars honking from the highway two streets over, and she waited.

She glanced at her watch when half an hour had passed, and her features clouded with worry and the slightest hint of confusion. She was sure this was where she was supposed to be. She had come on time. She frowned deeply, and her forehead wrinkled.

Her feet grew tired, but she stood exactly where she was, still waiting. Another hour passed, and as the rain slowed to a drizzle, her heart grew wearier than her weary body. She looked at the swirl of colours that was the sky; rays of golden light pierced the sheets of cloudy grey, and, looking at the quiet masterpiece, she sniffled. Slowly, she trudged back to the place she had come from. Her artist never came.