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The town was a work of art, crafted to perfection like a glass sculpture too flawless to remove from its box.

Every detail was etched with crisp lines stained with hues bright enough to burn the eye, as if the streets were pages of a colouring book filled by the steady hand of a meticulous artist. Flowers spilled like coloured pencil shavings, rulers guided the streets dicing the town into neat portions and dresses were ironed until they were as smooth as paper. The grey lining the streets in the form of dusty concrete was unacknowledged, drowned out with colour, but could not be erased.

Calls of "Good morning Mr. Tate!" and "Nice weekend, Keith?" would float between open windows on every early morning breeze. At nine every morning, virtually every front door would swing open, and the picture-perfect families would begin their day. No one stepped out of line, and no one questioned the routine.

With every line placed with such fastidious perfection, everyone noticed when Henry and Brynn's youngest was erased. Their belief that their town held no fault being disproved, the townspeople turned on each other, unable to accept the flaws of reality. The underlying greys leaking through sidewalks that every brilliant flower and smile had fought to conceal became impossible to ignore.