The board turned black. True black. The black of deep water, of obsidian, of a sleep without dreams. She leaned her forehead against its cool, empty surface and breathed.
Now , the silence said. Now or never.
The first swipe was the hardest. It always is. The drag of the cloth across the slate felt like pulling a splinter from bone—a long, necessary pain. The residue of a job she'd hated but worn like a skin. Gone. Another pass, harder this time. The memory of a friend who'd left, a door closed without a note. The chalk dust fell in pale, silent flakes to the floor. clean slate by mugwump
And in that void, a single, fragile power: the choice of what to draw first. The board turned black
Her hand hovered. Then, lightly, not even a word, just a shape—a single, small circle. A sun. A zero. A beginning. She leaned her forehead against its cool, empty