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The little mice sang on the frozen beach, beyond the reach of the old woman’s feet, and the moon shone like a golden medallion on the bare breast of the sleeping sea ⦾ Without a single word, but with a smile that seemed to say Goodnight, sweet dreams.

And then the little mice scampered away into the moonlight, and the old woman folded her hands, and slept until morning ⦾ And in the morning, she woke up and said I’m going to paint everything red today.

And so she did ⦾ She painted everything red — the beach, the sand, the rock ⋯ the shells and starfish and pieces of broken glass ⋯ the scattered pieces of driftwood and bits of floating kelp ⋯ the little wooden signs and the tiny flags that warned of danger ⋯ the seagulls and sandpipers and cormorants ⋯ the waves and the wind ⋯ the sun and the moon ⋯ and even her old brown dress and gray woolen shawl

For it was all hers, and she could do whatever she wanted ⦾ And what she wanted was to paint everything red ⦾ When she was finished she took off her dress and shawl, exposing her withered body to the sun and air ⋯ and then she stepped into the water and waded out to sea ⦾ And as she walked out into deeper water, she began to sink ⦾ As her hands floated up from her side, they still held a brush of red paint ⦾ And as her head drifted down toward the bottom of the sea, she hadn't closed her eyes ⦾ She had not yet closed her eyes