DiZ, Naminé. Ice creams and a box of crayons.
He should know how to handle little children, he thought. He had governed whole kingdoms and presided over a group of squabbling apprentices, and the latter, more or less, were children despite their ages. The problem was that this girl was not a child---she was a mere Nobody, and Nobodies were destined to be incomplete, to be forgotten, to disappear. That was her fate.
She seemed lonely. She couldn't be, though; she did not have a heart. Yet he found himself asking her, almost out of his volition, if she wanted anything else.
NaminÃ© looked up, staring at him with those disconcerting pale eyes of hers. She looked around the room, at the white walls, the white furniture. She smoothed her white dress, hands fluttering, nervous. "All the colours in the world," she finally answered, and she lined the ice cream stick neatly beside her pencil.
He left, and when he came back to her room a week later he placed a thin box on the table. Her gaze was questioning as she ran her fingers across the full set of crayons in it. "There," he told her. "All the colours in the world."
She constructed her own worlds after that, bright splashes of drawings scattered in her room. But he still had a heart buried somewhere within him even if she did not, so he did not tell her that her colours (the blue of the ocean and the sky and a young boy's eyes, the golden shades of warmth of the sand and sun and friendship and laughter) were washed out and toned down, blurred by memory.
He brought her another ice cream much later: sea-salt this time, and she smiled and thanked him. She continued to draw, absently licking the ice cream as it dripped, eating it the way a child should properly eat an ice cream.
Not a child, he thought, just a Nobody.
He left her to her own devices.