Nothing but a blank, white emptiness, spanning as far as the eye can see.
Cold. Sterile. A perfect, unusable canvas.
There is nothing to find here. Nothing to see here. Nothing to wait for. Nothing to do.
A setting between everything that is, the nothingness between the cracks.
Here, a lone figure observes the void.
This is not the first time they have shown themself here. They have appeared, again, and again, and again, becoming a frequent visitor.
One would have to wonder, why? Why do they keep coming here? Why do they keep coming back? What do they hope to find? It's not as if 'she' will ever appear. It's not as if they will ever find 'her'.
Surely, they already know this.
Surely, they understand this.
And yet, here they are-- standing, watching, waiting in this vast emptiness, spurred by a flickering spark of "hope" in their heart.
...'Hope'... or perhaps, 'Desperation.'Really, it's a lingering feeling that they must continue trying to look, or 'she' might appear... when they are not there.
They won't admit to themself whether it's one or the other. The figure simply continues this ritual, day in, day out.
Of course though, as time passes... nothing comes of it.
Nothing fills the seconds.
... even if she may not show up.Even if this might truly be... pointless.
... they still feel the need to leave something behind for her.
On the off chance she does find it... hopefully, she'll like it.