Chapter 22

He scooped the package out of the trash and unwrapped the wrinkled paper. Out rolled a wooden horse, obviously hand-carved, approximately ten centimetres long. It was rough, not quite smooth, yet oddly artistic because of that. The features were all there, the shape was right, but the simplicity and nakedness of the wood gave it the kind of heart and soul that realism too often failed to capture. It reminded Bryson of cave art, unique and irreplaceable, immediately offering a sense of melancholy because viewing it alone would never tell the whole story behind it, and the story was the whole point. It wasn’t black, but to Bryson, it was definitely Beau.