The sound of the door clicking shut registers faintly in Ozzy’s ears as he drags the wax crayon across his sheet of paper. Blue—light blue, the colour of the Neopia Central’s sky at noon, and a shade duller than the cyan he’s favoured for most of this drawing, but that’s exactly what he needs. He’s been experimenting with shadows lately, and has just learned to use darker colours instead of blacks and greys—

“Whew!” Nyx shakes her hair out wildly as she enters the kitchen, then runs a hand through it to straighten it out. “It sure is windy out there today—I could barely stand up on my own. Good idea shutting the windows, Ozzy.”

Ozzy raises his head. “Thanks,” he says, without mentioning that he only shut the windows because it was too bright in here. But then he notices something strange in Nyx’s posture: she’s angled herself so she’s half-stuck in the corner, and with one hand behind her back. “Um… are you okay, Nyxie?”

“Never better!” Nyx says, a big, bright smile on her face, but she says it too loud and too fast, and it makes Ozzy worry. She quickly pushes away from the wall and nods her head toward his drawing. “What’s that?”

Quickly, Ozzy rushes to encircle his drawing in the impenetrable fortress of his arms, and jumps halfway over the table to hide it for good measure. “Don’t look, I’m not done!” he cries.

“Okay, okay! I won’t look,” Nyx laughs. “But hey, check this out…”

She comes closer, still with one hand behind her back. From his position on the table, Ozzy watches with wide, curious eyes until she’s right up next to him. “I got you something.” 

“You did?” 

“Yep. So close your eyes… Uh-huh, just like that. Three, two, one… Ta-da!!”

Ozzy’s eyes open, and he blinks away a blur from scrunching them so tightly shut. When it clears…

He gasps. In Nyx’s hands—both of them—is a plushie. But not just any plushie: a paint brush plushie.

A Grey one.

Struck and hesitant, Ozzy reaches out—breath held, as if the slightest exhale will shatter the illusion, and he’ll wake up from this dream. It’s not a dream, though: it’s real, and the soft felt of the Paint Brush Plushie and the smooth silk of the purple ribbon around its fuzzy handle are enough to prove it. 

His fingertips run over the ribbon. Only belatedly does Ozzy look up at Nyx, awe sparkling in his wide, grey eyes. “Is this really for me?” 

“Of course!” Nyx’s smile has softened, and she steps back as Ozzy takes the plushie in both hands. He holds it up and gives it a few gentle swings, as if brandishing a toy sword or painting an imaginary canvas. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Nyx says. Ozzy startles, then slowly stops swinging his brush. He gazes back at his sister, a smile growing on his face. 

“I do! Thank you, Nyxie. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.” Nyx laughs, then turns to start her daily rummage through the cupboards. “Now, it’s getting close to supper time, so any special requests?”

Ozzy swings his plushie again, pretending he’s painting food into the pantry. “Can we have cereal?”

“Again?!” Nyx’s palm strikes her forehead dully and she sighs, but with a glance back into the open cupboard, she finds that there isn’t much choice. And so, with a wry smile, she says, “All right. Islandberry Crunch it is.”

“Nyx was the most important person in my life.”