My eyes search the sky as I stand silently in my cabin built of solitude. The air is fresh with motley scents that float from the valley. The wind blowing in rustles a million leaves, a million whispers that I strain to hear. They say nothing.

I stare at my empty canvas, hand poised with the dripping paintbrush. The whiteness waiting to be covered with the colors of my fancy. My mind's palette brimming with memories as bright and colorful as the paint that smears the wooden palette clutched in my hand.

I ache for her return, like I have never ached before. Tendrils of desire squeeze my heart. Somehow I know she will come. I know she will let me paint her again.

On the canvas, images begin to form. Images which have been imprinted in the memory of whiteness. . .

* * *

It was just another spring day like this one when I first met her. I had spent the morning mulling over the subject for my latest painting. I started to doodle, brushing random colors on the canvas, mildly euphoric and peaceful. I called it my chromatic zone. A state of mind where colors splash and merge, a tranquil presence encompassing me.

I loved the time I spent in the cabin. It was miles away from civilisation, perched on a hilly outcrop overlooking the valley. I had fallen in love from the very first time I saw it. I had bought it from the money I had acquired from the sale of a small collection of my paintings.

The buyer was generous, a bored millionaire who would probably stack them up in a dusty collection in his Aladdin's cave. I didn't care, for the money was more than adequate to support me through the long gaps in my creative urges.

"That's a beautiful painting."

I must have been dozing when I heard the tiny voice call out. I jerked awake in the chair, startled. The palette, which must've been resting on the arm, clattered down, sprinkling paint all over the floor. I turned around to locate the source of the voice.

She was a little girl, no more than ten years old, sitting on the wooden floor, craning her head to look at the easel. She wore a tattered pair of jeans and a worn T-shirt. Curly strands of untamed blond hair cascaded down her slim shoulders. There were leaves and twigs entangled in them; she must've been trekking through the woods that surrounded the cabin. She was covered in green sap stains, muddy prints decorating her T-shirt. There was a surprising freshness in her appearance, despite the dirt. An endearing scruffiness. Like a little Huckleberry Finn, only female.

I wanted to paint the child then and there. To capture the wide eyed curiosity in those azure eyes, the mischievous pout of her pink lips, the long pale neckline, the arms hugging the knees and the little bare feet tapping lazily on the wooden floor.

"I am sorry." She said, smiling up at me, "Did I startle you?"

I blinked, realising I was staring at her in a rather rude fashion. "Guess I must've dozed off. I wasn't expecting visitors." I managed to croak through my dry lips.

"Oh." Little girl said absently. She leaned back on the wall, arms still hugging her knees, rocking back and forth.

There was an awkward pause. I felt embarrassed, as if I was intruding on her. She was relaxed and looked at home, as if it was the most natural thing to creep up somebody's cabin and sit there, rocking.

"Are you from around here?" I asked as I bent to pick the palate up.

"Me?" she said, gazing into the trees. "Yes, I am."

"Do you live in the town?"

"Oh no. I am just passing through the mountain trail."

I noticed she had a small backpack and a doll resting on the floor beside her.

"My name is Grant." I extended my hand, "and you are?"

She smiled at me again, her eyes looking through me rather than at me. "I am Aly." Her small hand felt cold and soft and the grip was light, as if clasping air.

She brushed the hair from her beautiful round face and pointed to the canvas. "I like that."

I laughed. I looked at the random splash of colours I must've doodled before I dozed off.

"I was just playing. It is not a painting as such."

"Why do you say that?" she stood up and walked towards the easel. "It's got wonderful colours and a nice harmony."

"I am flattered." I said smiling; "that you think my random doodles are worthy of being called a painting."

Aly turned to face me, an expectant look in her big eyes. "Can I stay here for tonight? I am tired and I need some rest before I move on."

I didn't know what to say. I was still reeling from her entrance and now this!

"I... I don't know..." I stammered. "Where are your parents, Aly? You are not travelling alone, are you, sweetheart?"

"Yes... I ran away from home because no one loves me... and then I saw the cabin and thought I could ask you if I could rest here. Will it be too much trouble. . .?"

"Well... not really. I am here on my own. You don't mind...?" I didn't know what to say.

"Thanks!" She gushed before I could elaborate on the social intricacies of grown up man and a little girl sharing a small cabin. But Aly seemed oblivious to such details. She walked into the cabin, clutching her backpack and her rag doll.

I stood watching how beautiful she was and yet so small. I felt my hand aching to capture those lines on canvas.

* * *

She moved around the cabin with a familiarity of someone who had been here before. I asked her if she wanted some milk. She said she preferred to have a wash first. I was still deeply uncomfortable at the little girl's presence. She was standing in front of the shower stall and started undressing. I quickly turned away, feeling a flush creep up my neck.

I smiled at my reaction. I have done countless nudes and seen acres of naked flesh; yet I felt embarrassed at her innocent gestures. It is the situation, I told myself, the strange situation I am in, which makes me feel this way.

I turned back to see her jeans and T-shirt discarded on the floor. The shower stall was frosted and I could delineate the child's small nakedness through the glass.

I hurried towards the closet and took a towel out, hesitated, and took an old cotton shirt of mine, just in case. I didn't know if she had a change of clothes. She couldn't possibly wear those dirty ones after the shower. I shouted out to her that I was leaving those outside and hastened into the kitchen. I needed caffeine, desperately.

I brewed myself a strong cup, my mind a flurry of emotions. Mystified, perplexed, enchanted and curiously happy. I heard her step out of the shower. She came into the kitchen minutes later, wearing my shirt; moist hair rolled up in the towel. Her skin was translucent; steam still rising from her surface.

There was a certain raw power in her appearance, like a little earth Goddess risen to enchant me. She had that untamed quality, without any trace of modern embellishments. And she ran away because nobody loved her? Impossible. She must be making things up. I wondered if she belonged to parents of some naturalist cult.

The little girl sat across me at the kitchen table, leaning her elbows, resting her angelic face on her hands. Droplets of water trickled down her soft chin.

"Have you lived here long?" she asked in silvery voice.

"Oh no, I only bought this place recently. I have a place in the city, but this provides a nice distraction from that concrete jungle." I sipped my coffee, watching her, taking her lines in, mental fingers sketching rapidly.

"Do you paint people?"

It was as if she was reading my mind. "I do. Portraits... nude studies..." I swallowed.

She tilted her blonde head, smiling mischievously and chewing on a cuticle. "Will you paint me?"

I breathed in, my heart thudding in my rib cage. "I would love to..."

"Great!" she giggled.

Aly stood up and rummaged through the cupboard. I watched her in amused distraction. I didn't feel uncomfortable at her lack of social skills, she was only a little child after all. It was disarming and comforting. I had no urge to ask her where she came from or where she is going or if her tale of running away from home was true at all. I didn't want to know. It would be like being told magician's secrets. It will steal the magic away. She'd tell me if she wanted to.

"Honey!" she exclaimed as she picked up the pot from the cupboard. She unscrewed the top and plunged one finger in, scooping up the thick fluid and licking the fingers while overflow of honey trickled down her shiny lips and her hands.

"Yummy!" She exclaimed, still licking her fingers.

I gulped my coffee down and unable to look away from her beauty. I felt ashamed at being aroused by this small child. I feared for my self-control, animal desire spreading through me in waves.

The afternoon went lazily. We went for a walk in the woods, holding our hands. She pointed out all the different wild flowers and the local trees to me. She called them bizarre names, as if she made them up herself. She traipsed through the path like a little wood fairy, me following at a distance, taking in every move, every nuance.

I offered to cook her a meal. She instead settled for fruit and some more honey. She must have a sweet tooth like every child. She ate sparingly.

We spent the evening in front of the fire, telling stories and chatting pleasant nonsense. She went through few of my paintings I had brought along to the cabin. She lovingly caressed the canvasses, admiring the colors of the landscapes. She sat close to me, her tiny shoulders brushing mine. Her hair occasionally brushed my face as she leaned to point out something on the canvas. It gave me goosebumps.

I was dying to capture this beautiful child in paint but I thought I would rather wait for her to ask me.

It was a warm night. I lay in the bed, unable to sleep. I had offered her the spare sleeping bag I had but she had refused, settling for my bed, right next to me. I could feel her snuggled up like a little warm cuddleball, moonlight casting silver shadows on her sleeping form.

I lay listening to the night's million voices. The trees rustled in the wind. There was a gentle hum of insects lulling me to sleep. I slept. I dreamt I was in the shower, but instead of water there was a spray of paint. Colors washed down my skin and pooled at my feet. I drifted, watching the colors coalesce into Aly's innocent image.

I woke up suddenly, blinking in the dark. There was music in the wind. A strange crooning voice cascaded into my ears. My mouth was dry and my heart palpitated wildly. My first instinct was to look for Aly, but she wasn't in bed. I sat up in the bed, rubbing my bleary eyes. I wondered if she had left.

The crooning started again, coming from outside the cabin. There was a buzzing noise in the air. I walked towards the door and opened it slowly.

Aly was standing on the balcony. Her face was lifted up like an offering to the moon. Her little lips were open and she sang, not words but a soothing noise, a melody. She had a dark cloak wrapped around her. It shimmered gently in the wind, in contrast to her glowing blonde hair. I stood at the doorway, silent, mesmerised, watching this beautiful girl-child.

The buzz in the air was overwhelming. I leaned back on the doorway and it creaked.

She turned towards me, eyes glowing like twin fireflies.

The cloak shifted, as if it had a life of its own.

It did.

It scattered into a thousand dark forms that fluttered into the air. She was naked underneath, skin reflecting the moonshine. The forms fluttered close to me, silken brushes on my skin. They flew around me and settled on my face, my bare arms and chest.

Butterflies.

Aly kept singing as she walked towards me. The butterflies followed her like a cloud. She leaned on my chest, bare skin brushing my skin. I sighed.

She looked into my eyes, smiling. Her lips moved closer to mine, sweet honeyed breath teasing me. The butterflies flew around us, myriad little shadows flickering on our skins. I picked her up into my arms like a doll and kissed her for the first time. I ran my arms down her bare little shoulders, drawing her closer. Her skin had a soft, powdery sediment. Like the pollen on butterflies. Her sweet mouth tasted of honey. I moved my hands on her fragile back, shielding her from the moonlight, hugging her closer. We stood there lost in time.

She kept humming as she rubbed her small face on my chest. She flitted around me, kissing my bare skin, touching everywhere, electrifying. I shifted her unresisting form in my arms. She was light and airy. The butterflies followed us inside. They flew around us as we kissed passionately. I felt as I was floating in the air with them.

She smelled of flowers and leaves; honey and sap. She exuded spring from every pore. Her bare little arms and legs clung to me like vines. I buried my face in her long sunshine hair, inhaling fragrance only little girls possess. She was tender but wild, soft but fierce. She moved with me in harmony, wanting, taking and giving freely. I explored her lines in awe, my fingers feeling every inch of her trembling little body. The powdery pollen was all over our skins, like a dream dust.

Later, I lay back drained and delirious. The butterflies had left us by now.

She was lying beside me, tracing maps on my face with her finger.

"That was wonderful." She whispered mischievously. "I like kissing, you know?".

I nodded, running my hands through her blond curls. I struggled to find a suitable word to describe the experience. Never have I felt such love for a little child, a beautiful ten-year-old girl. Until now. I closed my eyes and inhaled her saccharine child-scent.

I felt her fingers lift my chin.

"Will you paint me now?"

"Now?" I looked at her, puzzled.

"Yes. You promised."

"But there is no light, I prefer daylight. . . it is so much better to paint in daylight, I can see the true colors on the canvas."

She looked puzzled. "Canvas?"

"Yes."

She started giggling again. "Oh no. I want you to paint me."

She stood up and raised her little arms in the air, pirouetting like a ballerina. "Me. Paint me. Paint my wings for me. I don't like them as they are. They are pale and bland."

I sat up in the bed, blinking. It must be a trick of the moonlight...

Two diaphanous wings spread from her angelic shoulder blades and unfurled in the air. I gasped.

She rose in the air, flitting her wings like those butterflies. She hovered over to me, kissing my cheek as I watched dumbstruck.

"Will you?" She muttered close to my ear.

I could only nod. My limbs were frozen, my voice lost, my heart melting with love.

* * *

She had little earthen pots of pigments in her backpack. She brought them over to me as I stood in the center of the room. I mixed the colors in my palette and started to paint as if possessed. I drew ellipses and circles, spots and patterns. I splashed broad strokes of green, specks of yellow, dots of red. I had a fever in me, my mind drawing inspiration from a million images of nature.

My breathing was labored as I bent, stooped, arched and squatted. The pigments were like I have never seen before. They had a metallic sheen, a fluorescent glow that lit the room.

She stood silently, occasionally turning her head to bestow me a dazzling smile. She hummed to herself. The wings soon took on a splendid aura.

I finished, the last pot of pigment empty. I wiped my sweating brow. I had splashes of paint all over me, illuminating my skin.

Aly fluttered her wings as if to dry them. She fanned them out and twisted around to look at them.

"Oh, you are truly gifted. I love this. I really love this. My friends will be jealous." She laughed merrily, clapping her little hands. She hugged me as strong as ten-year-old girl could and kissed my paint stained face.

"What now?" I asked, still in a dazed love with her. Deep inside I was convinced this was a lucid dream. Any moment now I would wake up in the empty cabin.

She stood close to the open window and crooned. The butterflies flew in again.

She spread her arms and let them settle on her skin.

"Thank you. I'll never forget this. I have to go now."

"Go? But... wait, you can't... I want to know... who are you?"

She didn't answer. Instead she rose in the air, flying in circles close to me. She gave a lingering kiss that would last forever on my lips.

And she flew away.

The End