A grey man stood in front of a crumbling city. Hands deep in pockets, breath spilling from his lungs like the smoke that belched from the cracked factory towers. Matted hair swam around his worn face, and his beard grew long over the patched and fraying coat. He was utterly alone.

She had told him about this place, but she was long gone now. Her visions of it as a vibrant city of life and laughter had led him here in the first place. Angrily, the grey man kicked a stone. It bounced away from him, tumbling and tossing down the rocky cliff that he stood on. The city spread out beneath him like an abyss.

As he stood, in anger and desperation, a crash of memory threw itself over him. A stained-glass girl and a ruby colored man, the light of autumn bathing them in whirlwinds of golden leaves, danced through his head. Her face is shining, like new-cut grass or a reedy instrument, like a secret that can’t be held. His is the quiet solace of pine trees and fountains. Tiny hand in his large one, the stained-glass girl tells him, the city is beautiful. He laughs a laugh of maple leaves and ice cream, and she shakes her head as jeweled birds of thought spill from her lips. The city is real, she insists. The ruby colored man looks down at her and smiles.

In a hurricane of stained-glass and ice cream, the thought faded from the grey man, leaving him desolate and cold. It had been three years since his daughter left him, three years since the fire. Looking over the city, disappointment and reality attacking him from either side, the man knelt down to cry.

He was almost surprised as tears began to spill from his grey eyes, peppering the ugly cliff with dark spots. He had not cried for three years, his journey and his search for this place the only thing preventing the emotion from overwhelming him. Now, though, when he reached the almost-forgotten dream with his feet sore and his heart full of loneliness, the grey man could do nothing but weep.

His daughter had taken him here. She had been with him; her bubble-bath giggles and feathery features were his rudder as he sailed from shore to shore, never resting until he found her longed-for city. And now she was gone like these hopeless imaginings that her city really did exist. In his agony, he almost didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

“Nice place, isn’t it?” The voice was smooth like a seashell, and the grey man rose to face it. A woman with skin and hair as dark as oblivion stood behind him, smiling gently. She told him, “The city was beautiful.” He stared at her, and her smile grew. Somewhere inside him, the grey man could feel himself returning.

On the edge of the cliff, the midnight woman took the ruby colored man’s hand. The city was beautiful.