Crimson mime

The mime lived where the gutters weep�" a world of static, cracked concrete, where every breath was swallowed down beneath a ceiling painted brown.

No one waved. No one stared. His act was grief. And no one cared. He mimed a rope. He mimed a gun. He mimed the end, then came undone�" but only on the inside, deep, where broken men forget to sleep.

Then once, between the rusted wires and factory walls and funeral choirs, he saw a garden, fenced and bent, a single patch of accident�"

and in the soil, absurdly bright, a rose ignited in the night. Blood-red. Defiant. Somehow whole. A flame against a world so cold.

He stopped. He stared. He didn’t move. A silence not for art, but truth. His white gloves shook. His chest went tight. He’d found a thing that felt like light.

Each day he came, but never spoke. He’d mime her laughter, mime her jokes. He’d trace her petals in the air�" a ghost of touch, a silent prayer. The world stayed gray, but not that place. She bloomed like warmth upon his face.

He loved her more than breath or sleep. He loved her like a wound too deep. She was the one thing never wrong. She was his only living song.

Then one day�"petals on the ground. No color left. No scent. No sound. She’d wilted under no one’s gaze, and took with her his one good day.

He dug his fingers in the dirt. No mime now�"just flesh and hurt. He smeared his face. He tore his shirt. He mouthed her name but made no sound, just sat where beauty once was found.

The garden grey. The rose was dead. The mime stayed still. He lived in red. A smear. A stain. A hollow chest. The act was over. And what was left?