He knelt in the silence, his arms holding nothing.
The spot where she had been was just cold air. The glittering black dust that was once her body, her soul, had faded into the dirt.
He was holding nothing at all.
Tears, hot and sharp, fell from his eyes. They traced paths through the blood and grime on his face.
Drip.
They hit the sand, making dark spots in the dirt.
'Why?' The question was a raw, silent scream in his mind.
'Why am I crying? For her? A person I just met? A character I drew with my own hands? She was just a collection of lines and ink I brought to life for a paycheck.'
He remembered sketching her face. The cold arrogance in her eyes. The sharp, proud line of her frown.
She was supposed to be a villain. A stepping stone for the hero.
But the girl who had died in his arms wasn't a drawing.
She was the one who had seen the cage he was in. She was the one who had stood in front of him.
