She never knew his name. That for so long she was only a sketch in his head.

She listened as he worked, could almost hear his world. Imagined she could almost know him. His tools in combat with stone. She stood in the hard darkness, imagining sun.

One day, he went away. She was abandoned, in between worlds, one foot stepping free from the limestone block.

He was ill. When he finally returned, his work was riddled with urgency. She could feel the chisel's haste. The man was dying, but she could not understand the concept. All she could think about was sun. For so long it had been but a sketch in her head.

When he was finished, he looked like an old man. When he lay down to rest, he never woke up again. Maybe, she thought, he no longer needed sun.

She was different. She would never be without it. Bathed in the golden shafts of morning, she no longer had to imagine.