“You live when you are free. You were free that one night with me.”
“And now you are gone.”
“And now I am gone,” she agrees, “but that does not mean you cannot come to me. You’ve
been like a bird with its wings pinned to the ground, always straining for freedom. Every flight
begins with a fall. Freedom does not come without cost, but all it takes is a leap of faith.”
He nods, takes a step to the edge of the roof. Another, another, and another, and before he
knows it he is teetering on the brink. He glances again at his lover, his rescuer, his death, his fate.
“You asked me to choose my own name.”
“I did.” Her black veils stir in the wind, blurring her face — for now. Soon, he will be behind
the veil too. “Have you decided yet?”
He spreads his arms, looking down at the sands. Still white, still so white.
White is the color of death and doom.
“Chiaroscuro,” he whispers. He leans forward and falls. The air rushes up as he soars down,
the wind whipping past his cheeks. The world unfolds before him, a mosaic of color at last, and he
laughs and stretches out his arms to embrace the ground.
For the last time in his life, he is free of the white.
