At that moment, the cat’s tears spread across the painting’s skin, a surging dark-green tide. She was only a fleeting spectator to it. No matter how many prayers she offered, she had never truly entered its world.
The painting held thoughts more boundless and profound than the stars scattered across the wilderness, but the cat had no right to claim them. The distance between them seemed endless. She understood that the world had forgotten her. She went far away and never came back.
The cat had truly missed out on love. She didn’t understand that she and the painting were equals. The painting might have received many sincere hearts like hers, but the time the cat had devoted to it meant her heart belonged only to it. She was a one-of-a-kind flower, blooming until its final petal fell. She should have been happy about that.
Quiet sunlight poured into the art museum that afternoon, drowning out every expression of thought. Whoever had gained something or lost something was made vivid and fragrant beneath the sunlight. Time would make us care less.
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