About the work

She had bought it that morning from a street vendor, just to have something bright on a grey day. The string was longer than she expected, and with each gust it pulled harder, a miniature anchor against the indifferent sky. Later, she would wonder if letting it go was a choice, a small act of rebellion against the commute, or just the consequence of a clumsy hand and an unexpected blast of wind. Now, she watches it shrink, a tiny red dot against the vastness, carrying with it the impossible promise of something else. Why did it have to be red?