running away
iv. gold
A brunette who'd shoved a business card into his gloved fingers and then dragged him backstage.
'I'm White,' she said. 'Green's manager.'
Gold wondered if there was a colour theme running around somewhere. Or a season theme. He supposed that made him autumn. White was winter without a doubt and green was spring.
Or green would be spring if the namesake wasn't dressed in winter clothes.
And maybe gold would've been summer if gold wasn't him: his name.
It was a silly thought, anyhow.
'White,' he repeated. 'I'm Gold.'
Her lips twitched. Maybe she saw that flimsy connection too. 'I'm also a talent scout,' she continued, explaining a manner of things Gold wasn't really interested in but he listened anyway. Because that was all he could do: listen, and watch. 'You have interesting eyes.'
He laughed hollowly at that. He knew well what his eyes looked like. Then he looked more closely at hers and found a similar shadow. A weaker shadow. She knew loss too. But she also knew hope. He didn't.
'What do you think truth is?' White asked, finally. She'd asked many questions before and since, and he'd answered each dutifully. And why not?
'The dead don't come back,' he said. And he watched her flinch.
She mouthed the words seemingly unconsciously. 'He's not dead.'
He might not be, but Silver was.
