![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Red: odd how the colour of fire is the colour of love.
Love…
A charred fragment floats down to her hand. The hand that wrote it – or was this letter one of his?
Black: the colour left when fire is gone. Scorched earth.
Her name.
Appropriate.
…is worth…
She closes the gate on her dreams, on those innocent days when she thought his manor the measure of his worth.
White: the colour of wedding. In some cultures, of death.
It would be proper to stay.
She finds she cannot.
…saving.
But her love was not saved.
Grief has no colour.
