Blank pages litter the floor, stirred by the breeze that enters in through the patio door, parting the white curtains. It smells of salt and sand, long summer days spent on the beach that eventually turn to evening and the reek of bonfire smoke. But summer is ending, and the usual sound of laughter that floats in on the breeze is absent. The house is silent save for the flutter of paper and the whispering sound it makes as it dances across the hardwood floor.

She sits on the sofa, rocking back and forth in a smooth rhythm. The children kneel on the floor, bent over the coffee table with crayons scatter all about. They never pause in their work to present it to her, ask for her approval. She never even glances at the paper. Instead they keep scribbling, she keeps rocking, and eventually she begins to hum to herself, the lyrics to an old children's rhyme, the kind they used to sing.

The little girl, with her long locks of blonde hair that only her mother can seen, reaches for her trusty crayon. She only ever uses one, worn down to hardly more than a stump. Her brother clutches his in one grubby fist, too small to know what to do with it. The crayon is white. It is always white. The others, in their vibrant hues, are never touched, as if they simply do not exist.

The little girl keeps coloring, staring intently at the page. The white crayon against white paper leaves nothing visible to the naked eye. She finishes the drawing and sets it aside, another blank page indistinguishable from the ones her brother and all the other children draw. It's all they've ever known.