I'm standing on the bridge looking down towards the river that seems almost still but isn't. The colour of the water reminds me of a time when I used to pick up stones and rocks with my grandmother that I thought looked ... pretty.
There was this one stone that looked murky brown with a tinge of red and I threw it away. I didn't like it but grandma did and she picked it back up and took it home with her. Three days later she threw herself of this very same bridge into the flowing torrents of the murky-brown water.
The water level was higher back then and now eight years have passed and it'salot smaller. I was rung by an old friend saying something came up and I needed to return to my hometown. Little did I know it was to identify my dead Grandmother's body.
The colour that has now stained my soul will stay with me forever but what does it matter?
The next colour will be amaranthine.