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In this picture of Seron, he was lying on a sheet that
was spread out on the grass behind their hut. A pile of
neatly folded laundry was off to the left. There was a look
of longing on his sad-eyed face. He was alone in the picture,
facing forward, with his arms outstretched, reaching.
Was that the way it really was? she wondered.
She gazed at the image of Seron. The sad eyes of her
husband stared back at her. Slowly, just as the red mist on
the Blood Sea would disappear when the sun reached its
zenith, so did the fog lift away from Kyra's memory.
That was exactly how it was. It was Seron in every
detail. His hands, with their long, shapely fingers, his
prominent cheekbones, his jutting chin, the shoulders she so
often lain her head upon - it was all just right.
Or was it?
Kyra's heart began to beat wildly in her chest. Was
there something wrong with the painting? Something
missing? The picture seemed to cry out to her for its final
perfection. But, somehow, she had left something vital
out, and she didn't know what it was.
In that moment, she felt so unworthy of her Seron
that she turned her back to the wet canvas. Except there
was no escaping her husband's sad eyes; he looked down
upon her from every wall
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