 This tale is titled, Swatches of a Sunrise. I've never seen the sun. Visitors are always so shocked when I tell them this. Has it really been that long? They ask. The townsfolk tell me stories of Sol's golden radiance. A grand fire in the sky, illuminating the world so brightly that you can't even see the stars. The soft oranges, pinks, and yellows of the morning sky, and even vibrant rainbows after a rainstorm. I was obsessed, entranced by everyone's stories, each one different and more spectacular than the last. I always wished I could be there to see it, to feel its warmth, though mother always told me not to look right at it. Even so, I wished that I could see it. I want to see what I can only imagine, those wondrous colors filling the sky, the sun at the center of it all. It is gone now, that light, but it exists still in memories. When my visitors come, I ask them for their memories, for their stories. It turns the leaves of the beech tree into shining green panes of light, they say, and it plays on the rushing water of the stream like so many tiny joyful sprites. I take these stories and try as hard as I can to picture them. If I am to paint these things, I must have the clearest image, no obfuscation can stand. I am surrounded by canvases, some complete, more discarded, all with their faces brushed in soft pinks and delicate blues. This is my life's work, I think, to paint a sunrise. I will fashion all manner of scenes naturally, how could any vision of sunlight be neglected? But the sunrise will be the greatest of those. Though it is a childish dream, I have always prayed that if I painted one perfect sunrise, perhaps I would wake one day to a true and heavenly vision through my window. A true dawn. Would that not be a most marvelous sight? Thank you for listening. Site 42 studios and its staff are funded by viewers like you. Please become a patron or visit our merch store at the link in our bio to support our work. Secure. Contain. Protect.