For the next few weeks, Blank had been going to Gramma Om's everyday after school.

Every time he visited, she always had a fresh batch of cookies ready. The first time she had made him some, she had asked, "Wait...how do you eat?"

He had proceeded to show her by grabbing a cookie and putting it against the spot where a mouth would be. Instantly, it had disappeared, and Gramma Om was left dumbfounded.

Now, she doesn't question the things Blank does any more. For the first time ever, he didn't feel different or unwanted with her. Gramma Om is a kind and wise lady, with many stories to tell that captivate Blank every time.

He remembers how she had told him she had no other family; she was widowed long ago, and she never had children. Gramma Om came to Blank's town to start a new life, a new adventure. Blank couldn't help but feel proud of himself knowing he was becoming a friend to Gramma Om, someone who she could treat like family.

One day, when Blank came to visit, Gramma wasn't sitting in her rocking chair as usual, but standing in the field beside her house. There in the long grass, she stood with an easel, canvas, paints and brushes. Blank came up to her, curious as to what she was doing.

"Oh, hello, Blank!" Gramma greeted. "Sorry I don't have cookies today. Ran out of baking soda."

"That's okay," he said, staring at the canvas she was marking.

Pointing, he asked, "What are you doing?"

"Painting the field," she answered.

Blank remained silent.

"Have you never painted before?" she asked.

He shook his head. "The School barely lets me draw with a pencil..."

"How rude of them," she remarked. Then, with a smile, she handed him her brush and said, "Want to try?"

Suddenly nervous, Blank took the brush and took Gramma Om's place in front of the tall easel. Quietly, he asked, "Wh...What do I paint?"

"Anything...!"

"But...you said you're painting the field."

"It doesn't have to be a field, my boy," she said. "It can be anything. Besides, my field is looking empty, so why don't you add something to it?"

Now even more nervous with the pressure of impressing her, Blank shakily took the brush to the canvas and moved it along the surface. The more he painted, the more embarrassed he felt. When he needed to switch to another color, he would accidentally mix them, and he could never fix it. He felt like he was making a disaster... Once he was done, Blank stepped away, clutching the brush tightly.

Gramma Om eyed the canvas, asking, "What did you paint?"

"I...It's supposed to be you," he murmured.

"Oh! Ah, yes, I see it now," she added lightly. But Gramma noticed the slump in Blank's shoulders and grew concerned.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she questioned, "Why are you upset?"

"It looks awful," he stated, downcast.

She brushed his black hair and said, "Oh, Blank, it's alright. You've never painted before. I can't expect ya to make a masterpiece."

"But I ruined your field," he mumbled.

"That's okay," she assured him. "If anything...your addition makes it a charming piece."

He raised his head at this. "How?"

"Well," she started, gazing at the canvas, "its like...a child's imagination. There's a whole world that they normally see, like the field, but in their eyes they also see something unreal, magical even."

"I painted a blob," Blank said bluntly. "That's not magical."

"How do you know blobs aren't magical?" Gramma laughed.

Blank stared at the painting some more, at the vibrant, green field and then the strange, stick figure blob he had created. He supposed she could be right.

"With a creative mind, anything can be magical," Gramma Om went on. "And if you're proud of it, then it becomes a masterpiece."

She took the brush into her nimble fingers again and began to paint a pink sky around the blob Blank made. Blank looked up at the real sky above them, seeing that it was actually blue. Instead of correcting her, though, he watched her work her magic on the canvas that once had nothing. And when she stopped, she gave him the paintbrush so that he could contribute again. This time, he attempted to paint himself, but he didn't use multiple colors this time; all he used was plain black.

Gramma Om was curious. "How come you aren't colorful?"

Blank shrugged. "My clothes aren't colorful."

"Mine aren't either," Gramma said, gesturing to her plain white shirt and shorts (stained with paint in some spots). "Yet you painted me with colors."

Blank looked down at himself. "I guess...that's just how I perceive you."

"So you see yourself as being black only?"

He nodded slowly.

Gramma Om smiled. "Everyone's got color to them. Even you."

Blank looked up at the canvas again, staring at the figure he painted of himself. He has color? What color does he have?

"Hey," Gramma piped up, "I've still got tea. How about we head over to the house and enjoy some?"

Without hesitation, Blank nodded and helped Gramma Om with carrying the painting supplies back to her house. A while later, they each enjoyed a warm cup of green tea, gazing at the sky that had gradually turned a light, rosy pink.

That night, Blank laid in his bed at the Home again, thinking about the painting he and Gramma had made together. She even hung it up in her living room once it had fully dried. Both of them had been proud of the work they did. But, aside from the memories of today's events, there was a certain thought Blank couldn't shake out of his head, and it kept him up for much longer than he intended. And when the morning came, the thought was still there, and Blank couldn't help but want it.

At Gramma Om's house, as soon as he came up to her and said his greetings, he asked, "Gramma, can I use your paints?"

She smiled and sat up straight in her rocking chair. "Of course, Blank. I'll get you a canvas too."

"I don't need a canvas," he admitted.

The old woman was confused. "Then what will you paint on?"

"Myself," Blank said and pointed to his faceless head. There was worry on Gramma Om's features. The eager boy went on, "You said I have a color, but I don't know which one. I want to find my color."

"Blank, that sounds lovely and all, but..."

"Everyone has a color," he went on. "The children at the Home have color, and the students at the School do too. I want to have a color, so that I can be with them."

Deep down, Gramma Om didn't feel right about Blank's idea, yet she felt a determination from him the likes of which she has never felt before. There was no way she could crush his passion, something he rarely expresses.

"Okay, I'll give you some paints," she said with a smile.

Blank perked up. Excitedly, he chimed, "Thank you, thank you!"

There, at the house, they spent most of the early evening sitting out on the porch, working with the paints. Since Blank didn't feel confident enough in his skills, he asked Gramma Om to paint his face for him, and she kindly obliged. Eventually, she completed her work and showed the young boy inside to see his face in her bathroom mirror.

"What do you think?" she asked him.

In silence, Blank examined the face she had painted on him. It was simple: a curved line for a smile, and two dots for his eyes. But along with that, there were swirls of color that brightened his face, flowing like ocean waves. It looked as if there was an entire world to explore on his face.

"I...," he started quietly, "I love it..."

"...How do you feel?"

Blank touched his hands to his reflection, still in awe that this was him. "I feel...great. Like...a new person."

"That's wonderful," Gramma Om said, but inside there was a bittersweetness in her heart.

The bittersweetness that only she felt grew when Blank continued, "Now...I can be with everyone. R-Right, Gramma?"

Reluctant, but unable to deflate his hopes, she nodded and said, "Right you are, my boy."

At the Home, the other children there were surprised to see the vibrant painting that was Blank's new face--his first ever face. Some of them were in awe and complimented the work to him. Others still avoided him, and even ridiculed him behind his back.

This reaction was the same at the School; some students liked the face, while others thought it was ridiculous. Blank didn't care about the negative feedback though, because for the first time ever he was able to feel normal.

At the Home, he had been able to play with a few of the other children with his new face. At the School, he was able to find a group to work with and study with.

This new face was a grand opportunity for him. No matter where he went, all he felt was immense joy. No matter who looked at him strangely, he felt happy with this colorful face of his. Even when the initial paint faded, he went to Gramma Om so she could make him a new one, and practiced on his own so that someday he could make a beautiful face without her help. Years of being faceless seemed nonexistent now that Blank had found his array of magical color, just like everyone else.

But this contentedness did not last.