He hated days like that one. Those days that just seem unfulfilled and sad. Days when nothing seems to get done, and even the things that do get done don't leave one with any feeling of accomplishment. He wanted to sleep, or eat, or find something to distract him. But there is nothing to be done on unfulfilled days. A heavy feeling of loneliness and rejection settled in the pit of his stomach.

He twisted a piece of string around his fingers. His fingertips burned red as he pulled the string tight. His lips curled into a smile, and the string disintegrated with a soft hiss.

But even this game with string got boring, so he pulled on a jacket and wandered out the door and strolled down the street, hands in pockets. Nature even seemed to know that it was a fruitless day. A wind blew fitfully, stirring up and blowing past, picking up leaves and hurling them back down then quieting, like a sulky child. It was a sickly sort of winter afternoon. The snow that had fallen on previous days was melting in brown pools and crusting into dark ice. There weren't many people out either, and those that were rushed past with downcast, bleary eyes.

He walked with no destination in mind, just letting his soul fit about in his body, restless, restless. He walked through the park, where the trees stood with aching stillness and silence pervaded.

There was a woman standing there, on the path in the park. She wore red, a red tank top, a long red skirt swelling with folds; she had bare white arms like the smooth white stones from a river and hair as pale and effortless as clouds.

Aren't you cold? he asked.

She turned, skirts and hair swishing. She smelled like cold clear water and her eyes were dark, as dark and as deep as distant nights only half remembered and sorely missed.

No, she said, I don't feel anything.

And he wasn't sure if she was talking about the same thing as he was.

Her knees bent and she sunk to the ground and lay down, her white arms cast above her white head and her red dress spread out on the still gray pavement. She closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling slowly.

He stood and stared at the gray sky. A little snow drifted down, falling through endlessness. A flake landed on her eyelashes. He bent down and regarded it for a moment. One of the points was partially missing. It was a dilapidated speck of ice that did nothing but perched haplessly. It was like a dismembered flower on its pale stalk of eyelash.

He put his arms underneath her and lifted her and she weighed nothing and was nothing, and he carried her back to the place. He laid her down on a bed and she slept and dreamed of birds that grew out of flowers. His fingers burned as the thawed.

When she woke she looked up and saw lights dancing on the ceiling. The flitting colors reminded her of the birds in her dreams and she reached up to pluck the light off the ceiling and hold its frantic and beating life in her hands. But the ceiling was too far away and she let her hand fall back. She turned her head and he closed his hand into a fist, abruptly getting up and leaving the room. She breathed in, and in, her chest swelling, then she breathed out again and fell back asleep.

She slept on, and while she slept the snow kept falling. The snow fell as she drifted through ageless thought. He waited and watched her and looked out at the snow. It snowed for hours, perhaps years, endlessly, and he thought that he hadn't imagined the end of the world to be this bright. The time remained empty and white. White sky, white ground, white hair, white skin. Time spun palely into the distance, its passing barely noticed as its monochrome changes slipped away. Only the ever piling snow showed that anything had happened, or he might have feared that time had ceased completely.

And then she woke up. She stiffened and threw herself from the bed and into the wall, slamming her hands against it. Pushing the wall with her eyes wide, she sucked in breath. She pounded the wall with her hands, again, again. He ran in and she looked at him, black eyes pierced with chaos. Then she screamed. She screamed and screamed.

He stood as she crumpled to the floor, silent.

I don't know if I exist anymore, she said, staring at nothing. I can't tell. I can't tell.

She held up her hands to inspect them.

He sat down beside her on the floor. He took one of her hands in his own, but she didn't even seem to notice. Her hand was cold.

They sat and looked at the snow falling. He wondered about the probability of his own existence.

Later, the bright night was shut out; the pale, orange clouds and glinting snow that still had not ceased its assent. She lay on the bed and he on the floor.

Why are you here? he asked.

You brought me here.

And why were you in the park?

Because I went there from somewhere else.

Is there no reason, no design?

Maybe not. Or perhaps there is, but we look so hard for it that we miss it entirely.

A pause, a pervading stillness.

What do you want? he asked.

He heard her slow breathing.

To mean something, she said.

And what does that mean?

To mean something, just to mean something.

The blankets swished as she moved on the bed. He rolled his shoulders to make the ache from the floor leave his back.

Are you happy? she asked.

Happy is overrated.

So is unhappy.

I suppose.

Sometimes I'm afraid.

Of?

Myself. Or perhaps of everyone and everything else.

Yes?

But she didn't answer. He lay still, looked up into the dark, felt his chest rise and fall.

I don't feel, she whispered.

Don't feel?

I dream of beautiful colors, beautiful things. Flowers and birds. But I see nothing when I'm awake, feel less. So I sleep that I might see more and perhaps even feel, but the dreams always end, I always wake.

They both lay still, a million unspoken fears and thoughts and words spinning out and away to disintegrate amongst the snowflakes and settle atop the piled snow to be covered by more snow until they disappeared completely. He must have slept.

He woke cold and aching. She was already awake, staring at the walls or perhaps beyond them.

I dreamed of breaking stones, she whispered. They were not beautiful, they were breaking, breaking.

He regarded her for a moment, waiting for her to say more, but she didn't and he washed and changed. He offered her the same-she took the first but not the second, choosing to stay in her red dress.

While she was washing, he sat by the window, held pure light in his hand, looked into it until his eyes burned. He let it wrap around his fingers, pulse and swirl. With a thought he made it change colors; the color of shadows at dawn, the color of grass you can see with your eyes closed when it's new, the color of a new moon, the color of happiness. He felt all these things and the light reflected it back into his eyes. So lost in his own light and thoughts he didn't see her come back or hear the swish of her dress.

She stood close to him, bending to see the light that shifted in his hand. Closer, closer, she willed that she might become a part of it, until he felt her breath on his face and squashed the light between his fingers. She jerked back, he glared, stood, put on a coat and left. She stood alone with the emptiness.

He marched through the snow, the ever piling snow, angry. It was his light, he controlled it. It was his alone. He knew that he was being greedy, but he was scared. What if he lost the light? How would he survive in darkness?

He stopped walking and cursed himself because he knew he was wrong, but didn't know what was right. His nose was very cold. He went back.

She was standing towards the windows, very still.

I, he began feebly.

He stopped, shook his head, put away his coat.

Fill me up with your words, she asked. I would that your words would fill me and consume me. Speak until I can't hear anymore, because I'm not sure I can. I would take your words and hold them in myself until I burst and then perhaps I would begin to understand something.

She cast a look at him, dark eyes wide, defiant, longing.

But he had no words for her; he could only watch her stand so very still.

Later, when he was asleep, she left. He woke up crying, but he didn't know why until he saw that she was gone, and even then he wasn't sure. He rubbed his eyes and went about his day.

He was bored again. His stomach was heavy and he wanted desperately for something to happen, to do something. He glanced out the window. It was still snowing, the whiteness droning on and on. But in the distance there was a spot of red. A drop of blood in the pure expanse.

His mouth was dry and he swallowed hard. He watched, barely daring to breathe. The red dot came closer, growing larger. Was it a red dress? For a second he wondered why he was so excited that she might have come back, but he thought no more on it than for that second and ran out the door, pulling on his coat as he went.

The snow was piled so high he could hardly walk, but he battled furiously through it, making his way towards her, because he was sure it was her now. He ran on and with a final burst, reached her.

Bent over, panting, he looked up at her.

I went looking for myself, but I only felt that I had missed something, she said. It looked so different outside, I thought that maybe I was somewhere else entirely.

His breath lifted from his mouth in silvery clouds. He glanced into her distant black eyes. She seemed to barely exist in front of all the snow. Her white hair and skin disappeared against it, her eyes and dress the only things that assured him that she wasn't a shadow.

She picked up a handful of snow. She looked at it thoughtfully.

When you hold it, at first it throbs and tingles, and soon it beings to burn. If you kept holding it after that would it sink into your skin? Would the cold become a part of you? she asked. It's funny, she continued, one of us can't feel, and the other doesn't want to.

She looked at him. He felt so cold. He hated himself at that moment; he knew she was right. He was scared to feel. Feeling means hurting.

But feeling nothing opens a hole inside of you that hurts more.

He reached out and brushed the snow out of her hand. He took her hand, it was frigid. He looked at her. There were snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes and to her hair. Her eyes looked at him, tired. He smiled and leaned towards her and kissed her.

They stood like that, hands clasped, lips clasped, as the snow fell, and he passed all of his light to her. All the light he had kept to himself, only for himself, he poured into her. All of his memories and feelings, all of his existence he gave to her.

Her hand began to feel warm, even hot. He felt a stirring in his soul as more and more light grew within him exponentially and into eternity.

They broke apart. Tears were streaming down her face. He stood looking at her, feeling lost in perfection.

I think I'm cold now, she said with a small laugh.

He took off his coat and handed it to her. She smiled, a beautiful smile, pink cheeks and nose. Her eyes shone.

As he watched her walk away, red dress, coat, white hair, the snow ceased to fall. He started back, freezing, but glowing. Soon the snow would melt, and then flowers would grow, and out of the flowers would come birds, but all the beauty a person can hold was inside of him, and all the beauty a person cannot hold was walking away in the snow. But love doesn't understand the bounds of human capacity, and he was no longer afraid.