Splinters of crystal, strewn across the bare wooden floor, glinted in the early sun.

          Staring down at them, he thought he'd seen them before. Presently, he remembered where he'd seen the original image, the image of which the floor under his shoeless feet was a tangible facsimile.

Last night, late last night and unable to sleep, he had opened his bedroom window and looked up into the sky. In the descending blackness, he had thought he'd seen a brushstroke-trace of the evening sunset; the deep pink edge of cloud trembling at the approach of night, only to vanish in a blink of his tired eyes.

          As he'd watched, his eyes had begun to make out the stars. He had seen them shine. He had wished for them all.

          He had known such a wish could not be granted but still, as children do, he had wished it.

          Now, he turned his reluctant gaze to the crystal-strewn floor. None of these stars would disappear as the sky grew lighter. No matter how brightly the sun shone, these stars – imitations of the ones he had wished for so desperately – these would never be swallowed up by the greater glow of the sky's brightest star.

          He looked at his hand. A line of red stained a fingertip. He touched it to his mouth, tasting its expected saltiness. He knew he would get no sympathy for this self-inflicted wound – in that he knew what he had done, he expected none – and, given time, the wound would heal.

          How vivid would be the remaining scar depended solely on him. If he was able to leave the wound to heal, the scar might not show at all; he might only ever notice the slight tension in the skin. He also knew, even with the elementary experience of youth, that if he was unable to leave the wound alone, it might become infected. He had been told of the further damage this could cause but had not quite believed it. Until now.

          In his other hand he held what remained of the crystal. He tried to create an image in his head of how it had looked before but he couldn't, even though he had seen it many times. How often had he asked to hold it! How often had his requests been met with a blank look, which he soon learned meant he was not being clear about what it was he wanted.

          He had tried to make himself understood but, until now, had failed. Until now.

          He thought he knew what had changed. Then he realised he only suspected he knew.

          "One day," he thought "when I grow up, I might be able to work it out for myself."

          The thought gave him some comfort... immediately gone when he realised that what he had done, in his impatience, could never be undone. He knew that whatever he said, he would have to be totally honest about what had happened. If he could explain it to himself, then he should be able to explain it to whoever found him, barefoot and bleeding, in this place.

          How had he come to be here? He remembered walking into the dimly-lit room but not opening the door. So, the door must have been left open. He looked back towards the door; would he have been able to see the crystal from there?

          Yes, he would, and once his eyes had glimpsed its multi-faceted beauty, he had been drawn to it; in the gloom he had hovered, moth-like, before reaching out for the rainbow flame encapsulated in the flawless object.

          How did he explain what it was that had shocked him? He could think of a hundred things that might, on any one day, have done so, but they had not done so on this day. He had not heard the howling of the wolves this morning, neither had he heard the scuttling feet of the mice. None of the sounds that might have caught him off-guard – which might have caused his fingers to lose their grip – had been heard. It had been almost silent outside... silent inside, save for the gentle ticking of the clock.

          Briefly he had held, in his sleep-shaky hands, the solid whole of which these fragile, razor-edged remains had been the parts. What had sent it tumbling from his fingers to shatter on the floor had been the simple knowledge that he had been in the wrong.

          He had done wrong and, as a result, what had been wholly precious was now in a thousand pieces.

          He looked up at the sound of the door closing. He saw stern eyes survey the room, taking in the destruction. His hand convulsed around the jagged edge of what was left of the crystal and he cried out. As his eyes filled with tears, he remembered that he would get no sympathy. Still, the tears ran hot down his face and his face burned with shame.

It had been priceless. And he had broken it.

          Priceless, he wondered, then asked, "Does that mean it costs nothing to replace?"

          The closing of now sad eyes and the slow shake of a greying head told him no. "When something is called priceless, it is because its cost cannot be measured in money. When something priceless is destroyed, the chances of ever having another are destroyed with it."

          There was a long silence. Then he asked, a hopeful tone to his voice, "But it wasn't unique. There must be another one like it."

          "Like it, but not it. Another one wouldn't capture the light in exactly the same way. Another one wouldn't have exactly the same flaws. Another one wouldn't split the light into exactly the same colours. It was unique."

          His tears welled up again. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm really, really sorry."

          "I know you are. I also know that you know simply saying 'sorry' will not change what's happened. A gift like that can never be replaced."

          His face turned pale and he stared at the floor, stared hard at the shards of crystal in the hope that, if he thought hard enough – if he wished for it above everything else – the parts would once again become whole and the shame and guilt he felt would perhaps be assuaged. "Who was it a gift from?" he asked in the whisper that was all his tightening throat would permit.

          "Your mother."

          Turning blindly, he walked across the floor, leaving spots of blood from the cuts on his feet. He threw open the window to gulp in some fresh air.

          God! It was cold! Colder than he'd ever known it.

          The icy air caught in his throat, flooding into his lungs as he sobbed, remembering how he had felt when he had lost that first gift.

          He also remembered the crystal, and how he'd felt when it had shattered.

          And he realised that both gifts had been unique, both had been priceless, and both were now gone.

          And his tears fell, freezing like crystals on the window frame.