He paused and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He looked back down at the canvas with his brows furrowed, examining it.

His painting was plain, just a simple portrait of a girl. But he was intriqued. Who was this girl he created? What was her name? What was her past? All it is, is some paint, carefully laid out of a canvas, but it seemed like more. With the paint he had created a girl, a little girl. She was tilting her head, her eyes looking straight at the viewer, a faint smile on her lips. Her head was on her hands, both her elbows on a table in front of her.

The artist marvelled at it. Why was he so intriqued? It was just a painting, a painting that he had done. But she looked so content, starring out into the world beyond the frame is was in.

She looked so innocent, he thought. She reminded him of the innocence of little kids. Kids that haven’t learned of the bad yet, haven’t seen the horrors of the world.They trusted everyone completely.

He sighed, and longed for that time again.