Sadness is a well.

Children walk by

and once they're tall enough they will peer over a well's ledge

and wonder just how far away the bottom lies,

and sometimes they'll wonder just how sharp the pain of falling would be.

Sadness is the sky.

Children walk by, and one day they will look up

and wonder just how far away the stars are,

and sometimes they'll wonder just how deep the fear of flying would be.

Black ink makes up the sky. Gravity is not a solid thing here. Sometimes it goes the wrong way, and all the little bits start rushing towards the ink with startling propensity – bodies, feelings, smiles, dry eyes. Everything falling away from the ground and into the black hole above. That's when it rains. Hard drops collapse, surrendering their position with the empty intent to stain. The things trapped on the ground – trees, plants, buildings –are drenched in toxicity.

A white fox waits on the ground for the chaos to end. Its sapphire eyes are deep like the center of the ocean and its nose twitches, tail whipping back and forth restlessly like it was on time for an appointment but the doctor's gotten caught up somewhere on the road. Black drops slide off its alabaster umbrella like water on wax. Timing is everything. It's been raining a lot recently. Rather, Gravity's been fucking up a lot recently. Too much. For God's sake, please.

Zoom out. There's a Girl in a Black Dress holding the ink-rain disaster in a box in her hand. She's on one knee, still as a statue in a blizzard, her hand held out as if offering the mess to an absent recipient. People say she's been looking a little gaunt, a little sick. Tired, maybe. Eyes tightly shut, she's waiting, waiting, waiting. Time is willing to stand still for her, offer all the second chances in the galaxy, but her heart keeps beating, beating… beating, like the slow breath of an oak as the world turns. She takes a deep swig of ice-cold air. The hot ink in the box cools a bit.

The fox looks up. The temperature dropped. Now. It closes its eyes and melts into the girl. She exhales. The clouds of her breath are too dense, dancing with each other. They solidify and the fox is before her just as the blizzard begins to intensify. It takes a step, silently commanding the girl to look. She doesn't dare.

The white fox is concerned but calm, the air is light here, unlike under the ink-rain. The fox once more urges the girl to open her eyes. She can't, she's burning up. The snow is quickly flooding the scene, and the fox sends its soundless command once more. The third time, her eyes snap open involuntarily. The temptation to see caught her off guard and she meets the fox's unblinking gaze. Neither one looks away as the girl shrinks, the box falling to the ground. She's back where she belongs – the weight of the box is gone, and she's returned. She's got black fur, ruby red eyes. Home.

Days go by. The weather in the box is normal; the weather outside is normal. Perhaps years go by. The box is lost, or stolen, or simply nonexistent, until the second the white fox finds it and disappears. A Girl in White is bound to it, the fox buried deep in her chest somewhere. The weather gets hot – far, far too hot. The sun reached out a finger and plucked the Earth from orbit, holding it close. People have been saying the Girl in White has been distracted, off in her own world; she looks a little sad. No one knows the grief she holds in her hand. The temperature in the box is sub-zero and the black fox is stuck inside, watching snowflakes melt off its fur, unblinking.

"Did you feel that?"