Granma’s room; always dark. Silence, stillness, nothing touched.

Nine years old, the oldest, not the favourite.

Is Granma alright? Maybe tea?

Two cups of bitter, peaty liquid; no milk, no sugar.

“Drink it.”

The leaves drift into symbols.

She frowns.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing.”

The word stains like nicotine.

---

David Rae currently works with numbers, but prefers working with words.