Jacob Reynolds was nostalgic, taking in each heavenly smell as his nostrils and lungs filled with the earthly scent of pine. But it was not the paper that held Mr. Reynold's eyes, nor was it the fact that the Green Room was, quite literally, painted green. No, two sheets of paper held his eyes, held his mind, but, overall, held his heart.
Two sheets. Not one, not three, but two. Why two? Reynolds quietly collapsed onto his bed, memories flooding his consciousness. A burnt, wood desk, ink and smoke mixing into a fatal combination. Papers strewn about the floor, fingers of red and orange slowly, tickling the fringes brown. Trees, grown with tender care, black crisps.
"Only two. Use 'em well, Son." A gentle smile had marked the occasion, in such stark contrast to fate's malevolently ironic hand.