He poured the ink into the bottle careful not to spill a drop. In the black little bubbles that escaped the bottom, he saw little puffs of white as they popped, and he smiled. The ink contained purity. Life. Love. Experience. It contained everything it could be used to write, and everything an artist might draw.
It bore the limitless potential of imagination, and his heart was drowning in it.
Carefully, he corked the bottle and sealed it with blood red wax. He crossed his tiny room, ducking around the herbs and flowers dangling from his ceiling, and pushed open the shutter in his kitchen.
“Use it as the moon waxes full,” he said, “to cultivate all it has to offer.”
The hand emerged from the night, gnarled and yellowed, and plucked the bottle from the herbalist’s hand. “Perhaps I will write as the moon wanes, to test its capacity for darkness.”
The herbalist’s brow furrowed, but as he reached to take the bottle back, the yellowed hand disappeared in a puff of shadow, and the ink along with it.