Chapter Text
The displacement of a single electron by a billionth of a centimetre at one moment might make the difference between a man being killed by an avalanche a year later, or escaping.
- Alan Turing
An empty canvas is almost oppressive in its vacancy, in its hunger. It is speaking only from what is left unsaid, undone.
A color, unchosen. A page, unmended.
A memory, forgotten.
To create is to destroy, each stroke changing the nature of what had come before, what will come after. The brush leaves behind the suggestion of movement, precariously frozen in time, waiting for the next disruption.
The next spark.
A spark to a wildfire; charred forest like a blank canvas, holding its breath. Waiting for the first rain, seeds of potential lurking unseen beneath the surface.
One detail. One touch. One more chance.
Ash in the gears of time. The right electron to displace, captured in the iridescence of a butterfly wing.
Falling, twisting back down to earth. The beauty of movement, lost in the pursuit of perfection.
They were both such delicate things.