"Build a memory," Rothko said, his voice low but unwavering. "Not with form. Just with color."
Rex stood still, facing the canvas. Blank. Infinite. Waiting.
And he remembered.
Smoke filling his lungs. Heat crawling across his skin. The sound of wood cracking as a fire devoured the house around him. No one had come yet. No sirens. Just a child in the corner, eyes burning, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
He picked up a brush. No pencil. No lines. Just pigment and breath.
He started with ochre — not the sunny gold it's known for, but scorched and dry, like walls blackened by smoke. Then came burnt sienna — dense, earthy, heavy like the memory. Finally, a thick band of black, wide and uneven, cut across the bottom half of the canvas like a wound.
