Two
When the light is cut to silver, many things take on a different complexion. A grey morning is less brash than a blue sky. It reveals as much as it conceals, even if that revelation is internal and introspective.
Cherry blossom trees stand in the library courtyard, and a mist has descended between the walls. Nothing will happen in this courtyard, at least not today. What could happen here? Rain will fall today, and burn the mist away. I suppose that is something.
There are no actors here, no protagonists, no antagonists; just a wet, brick-paved courtyard in the mist. The Serpent is not here, but is also not forgotten.
The courtyard is neither full nor empty, but it waits in the silvery grey of the morning.
