Into the Grey

The old man sat on the stoop beneath the awning of the abandoned house, gazing down at the photograph in his weathered hands. The photo was four by six inches, and had been folded and unfolded so many times that the creases had become translucent, and were in danger of tearing. Two horizontal lines and two verticals divided the photo into nine sections, and the resulting pattern resembled the tic-tac-toe game that the children used to play. The old man allowed himself a small smile that reached from his dry, cracked lips up to his colorless eyes. With the delicacy of handling a precious artifact, he folded the photo once more and placed it into the heart-shaped locket that hung from a fine chain about his neck. He tried pressing the sides of the tarnished silver together with his thumb and forefinger, grimaced, then reluctantly used his other hand to close the clasp with a quiet click. He rose from the stoop with a painful deliberation, and when his knees had stopped their protestations, he picked up his bag and made his way down the silent street.

If the arthritis that gripped his body was telling the truth, a rain was going to bear down on him today. Unfortunately, these days it was the only part of his body that he could accurately count on, so he wearily raised the hood of his ancient parka against the coming squall and started casting about for a decent shelter. Looking left and right, he played the game he always played to distract himself from the pain that flared with each step. The premise was simple: he would look at an object and try to pull from his memory what color it had once been. Some things were clear in his mind, like the dashes that ran down the center of the road. He could remember the cheerful matte lemon-orange of them, running straight through the open fields, or bending in ebullient curves through forested hills. The cobalt blue of the postal boxes that stood on the sidewalks of the small towns. Other things, like flowers, were more difficult to recall. The ones that hadn’t withered outright at the beginning had been swiftly plucked and placed in vases in darkening homes, ephemeral beacons against the inevitable night. Now the memories of marigolds and swaying asters, daisies and tender lilies, proud tulips and eager crocuses, all had faded behind the shadows. The old man chanced a wary look toward the western sky, remembering the way the sunflowers near his home would crane their necks to smile at the sun, back when it had been a perfect sphere of golden light, and not the twisted and ropy mass that it had become.

The old man shuddered without noticing and carried on, his plodding footsteps echoing down the grey brick alleyways and against the shuttered storefronts. He passed a grocery with faded advertisements pasted against the rare unbroken windows, displaying deals for grey berries and melon, cuts of off-white meat and pale vegetables. Though his eyes showed them robbed of color, he felt like he could almost taste what had vanished; the berries bursting with a flood of azure and amaranth and the melons dripping celadon juices, the tender meat exuding hues of carmine and carnelian, radishes and broccoli exploding with rusty scarlet and muted jade.

If only.

What was left to eat now was the same leaden color as the failing sky, the same dull pewter as the roiling oceans. Despite this, his imaginings had awakened his hunger, so he hastened his steps as much as his ailing body would allow, and continued toward shelter. At some point he became aware of the sound of another’s footsteps haunting his own, but glancing furtively around, he saw no one. After another hour of walking, he saw a rundown motel sitting disconsolately beneath the tossing palm trees. He studied it awhile, checking behind him periodically, and as the first drops of rain struck his jacket he decided it looked safe enough, and ventured into the office. Behind the cluttered desk was a wall-hung keyring board, and from it he plucked a keychain with a single key and a numbered wooden disc. Outside, he walked past the rows of plain doors and windows, with boxy air conditioning units sitting silent beneath the closed blinds. He unlocked the door of his room and crept inside, flicking the light switch out of habit. The room was stuffy but clean, and the beds were still miraculously made up and unused.

The old man hung his dripping jacket from a wall hook, then removed the top blanket from the bed and lowered himself onto the vaguely musty sheets, sighing as the pressure was lifted from his knees. From his bag he pulled a battered can of peas, and after a moment of prying with his small knife, he tilted the can into his mouth and chewed the mushy contents. Using the blade, he scraped the last of the soggy vegetables into his mouth, and the sound against the tin was jarringly loud in the stifling room. He peered into his bag, tempted to open the final can within, but decided to save it for the morning. He knew that he had to be close now, for the rain had brought with it the smell of the sea. The old man sat in thought for a moment, then hobbled over, lifted the blinds and unlocked and opened the window. Grey light streamed in, and the smell of the rain beating on the cool asphalt stirred a wash of memories in him. He sat back down and stretched out on the sheets, and removed the locket from his neck. His tired, sore fingers refused to work the small clasp, and after a time of struggle, he set the closed locket upon his chest and cried until he fell asleep.

When he woke, it was mostly dark, and the locket was gone. He moved his hands in frantic circles on the bed around him, searching the slightly damp sheets, but didn’t feel it anywhere. He looked around and saw a hole cut in the screen of his window, and a dark shape outlined in watery moonlight. His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch in his chest, and he sat up, gasping. The figure in the half-light didn’t move. As the old man’s eyes adjusted, he saw the locket lying open on the floor next to his last unopened can of peas, which were near the small, dirty feet of the young girl that had broken into his room. She was waifish and poorly clothed, and was holding the picture from the locket in a shaft of moonlight, her wide eyes transfixed on the image. When the kick of adrenaline had faded, the old man spoke, for the first time in a very long time.

“You ought to see it in the daylight,” he croaked in a bare whisper. “It shows a bit better.”

The girl flicked her eyes at him for the briefest of seconds, then back to the photograph.

“I don’t understand,” she said hoarsely. “Who is she?”

The old man smiled sweetly. “My daughter,” he replied. “We bought her that dress for a school dance, long ago.”

“But why is it… how does it still...” the girl said, struggling for words.

“I have no idea,” he said simply, “For whatever reason, it’s the last color to fade. Something to do with wavelengths, I suppose. Her mother wanted her to wear a blue dress that day, but Amelia begged for this one. You can’t imagine how glad I am that she did.”

“Where is she now?” the girl asked timidly, catching his eye once more.

The old man sighed. “I don’t know. Somewhere out there, in the grey. We lost touch a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently.

“Me too.”

They were quiet for a moment, the young girl still staring at the photo, and the old man watching her with a sad smile. Neither felt the least bit uncomfortable.

“Are you hungry? I have a can of peas that we could share,” he said, “It isn’t much, but it’s something.”

She nodded eagerly, and handed him the can. “Thank you,” she said. “I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

He pried open the can, wincing a bit at the pain in his hands. After a few scant mouthfuls, he passed her the rest, which she quickly downed.

“I followed you here,” she blurted quickly, embarrassed. “I was going to steal your food. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replied. “I’m just happy to have someone to talk to. I’m sorry I don’t have more food to share.”

“That’s okay. This was enough for now. Where are you heading?”

“The ocean,” he answered, after a few moments of silence.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I don’t know what else to do.”

The young girl stared at him for a while, unsure of how to respond. The little bit of food in her belly had made her sleepy. The old man saw her eyes growing heavy, and he motioned to the other bed.

“You can sleep here if you want. I can’t offer much protection, but it might be safer with the two of us.”

She yawned deeply and looked once more at the photo, and her eyes shone. She slowly handed the photo and the locket back to the old man, then curled up on the other bed and was soon snoring.

The old man lay awake for a time, listening to the perfectly human sound of the young girl’s light snores, and held the picture in his hands, his eyes clear and dry and crinkled with joy.

When the young girl awoke in the grey dawn, the old man was gone. His bed was made, his jacket and bag were where he left them, but the locket was lying next to her pillow. She snatched it up and ran out the door, looking around for him, but the streets were empty. To her left, the sky seemed to stretch endlessly, and she thought that that was where the sea might be. She hurried off, her bare feet slapping the crumbling pavement, until the line of buildings ended, and the horizon opened over the turbulent sea. Seeing no sign, she fled across the silvery sand and spied something near the water’s edge. Nearing it, she realized that it was the clothes that the old man had been wearing in bed, folded neatly in a pile, and a vanishing line of footprints led into the tide.

A ragged sadness tore at her, and her breath hitched in sobbing gasps. When the storm inside of her had subsided, she unclasped the locket a final time. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the photo and looked down at it again. In mostly black and white, a much younger version of the old man was laughing, with his arm around the slim waist of a slightly nervous looking teenager. Her dark eyes looked shyly into the camera, and she had allowed a cautious smile onto her face. Slender arms and skinny legs emerged from a simply cut dress, which leapt out of the photo with startling clarity. It was the violet of storm clouds churning across the sky in a forgotten twilight, the dusky purple of a lavender field beneath a cloak of stars, the amethyst whirl of a far flung galaxy. It was the last shade of beauty in a fading world.

The girl closed the locket, kissed it gently, and flung it into the seething waters. The photo she set upon the old man’s clothes, weighted down with stones. The impossibly small splash of color gleamed on the washed out beach like a burning lighthouse. She sat for a while, then stood and walked silently off into the grey.