As the sun was setting and birds were returning to their nests, the two of them sat close. Painted a smooth, peachy white over strong, ebony wood, sitting on a grassy plain, a girl with a paintbrush trudged over the hills of grass to see them. She plopped down and stared at them for hours. She closely observed the hinges, cracks, craters, every inch of the two sheds. They stared back confused and struggled to see why she would be interested in two, old, broken sheds attached to each other. Her young, blue, soulful eyes shifted to the shattered window. What is she doing? One of the sheds thought. She ran her fingers along the sharp shards stuck on the windowsill. She studied it closely, then skipped away. Until next time, one shed said. She always returned, more eager than the last time. Yet every time, she went away more disappointed. On the sixth year, she returned with a ruler and measured the space between the two of the sheds. The two of them reached out for each other, but could never touch. The girl still returned knowing the condition they were in. The two of the sheds grew apart day by day, despite clinging on. By the day the girl was 50, the sheds almost touched their roofs to the floor. Goodbye, they said to each other. She sprung up from her sitting spot and pushed the two sheds to the grass.