Crimson Tube

You kept whispering about blood this morning. I checked the corners. There is none. Only this quiet table. Next to an open sketchbook, I found a small silver tube with a dry crust at the nozzle. The worn label says 'Crimson'. I nudged the black cap with both paws until it came free and rolled away. A tiny bead of thick, dark red pigment slowly squeezed out into the cool air. It has no pulse. No warmth. Just paint waiting for water. I sat beside it without moving, letting the red dot stay right where it fell.