Red
In all of the black woods whose charcoal branches lattice over each other against the ash-grey sky, whose charcoal trunks sink into the ash-grey ground like so many elephants' legs with no elephants attached, there is just one living thing now, and it is a bright red bird. The bird is so bright and so red that if there was a second living thing in the woods, and it was you, then the brightness and redness of it might stain your vision, leave marks on everything you look at after, like the sun that doesn't hang in the ash-grey sky. But you are not there and there is no-one to see or hear it - even so it opens its crimson beak, and from there inside where the red is even thicker, it lets out a song that fills up the wood and all the greys and blacks become more beautiful without moving or changing at all.