After the snow had melted, colour returned to the landscape. ‘Was the snow absorbing all the colours?’ he asked. ‘Oh, probably,’ came a familiar voice. The small, dark girl rode her bicycle once in a circle around him. ‘The snow or the sign or you.’ ‘Me?’ said the sailor. ‘How could I absorb the colours?’ ‘You’re a very colourless man,’ the small, dark girl said, pivoting on the back wheel of her bicycle, like a perverse jewellery box ballerina. ‘Thanks,’ said the sailor. The small, dark girl stopped her rubber pirouette. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘He discovers his sarcasm at last. He is truly coming on.’ The sailor looked past her, trying to see the sign. ‘Don’t look for that thing,’ said the small, dark girl. ‘You’ll never see that thing again.’ The sailor looked behind him, trying to see where his opposite had gone. ‘Or him,’ the small, dark girl said. ‘You’ll never see him again, either.’ The sailor felt the surface of his well cap crack. He felt the grief bubble up. ‘At least you won’t drown,’ said the girl. ‘At least the grief won’t kill you.’ Something splintered in his chest. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ he said.