PAINTING THE SKY'S BACK

Roe always knew when a color was dying. She could feel it in her chest first a strange tightening, like someone pulling a thread through her heart. That morning, it happened again. She woke up to a sky that wasn’t blue or gray or anything in between. It was simply… quiet. A blank, muted sheet stretched above her house, as if someone had erased the day before it could begin. She sat up in bed, her fingers brushing the paint stained sheets she refused to wash. They were the last thing her grandmother had touched before she passed the only person who ever understood why Roe could see the world differently. Everyone else said she was dramatic when she spoke about fading colors, but her grandmother would simply smile and say, “Artists see what others can’t.” Roe swung her legs over the side of the bed and stepped onto the cool wooden floor. Her small room was cluttered with canvases, jars of brushes, and unfinished sketches taped to the walls. Normally the colors would glow softly, almost humming with life. Today they looked dull, as if the lifeblood had been drained from them overnight. “Not again,” she whispered. Her chest tightened further. She slipped into her oversized hoodie and padded quietly downstairs. The house was still, the kind of stillness that made her feel as though she were walking through a memory. Her father had already left for the construction site, and the breakfast he always set out for her two slices of bread and a mug of tea looked pale under the muted sky leaking through the windows. Roe ignored the food and walked outside. The quiet sky pressed down on the world like an unfinished painting. The birds weren’t singing. The air felt heavy, as if waiting for something. She lifted her hand, studying her fingertips. They always tingled on days like this. Her gaze drifted toward the old shed at the back of the yard the place where her grandmother used to paint before her eyesight faded. Roe hadn’t stepped inside since the funeral. But something tugged at her now, a pull she couldn’t ignore, like a whisper threading through the air. She moved toward the shed slowly, each step soft on the dew-coated grass. The wooden door groaned when she pushed it open, and a wave of dusty, familiar scent washed over her—oil paint, dry paper, and lavender. Sunlight filtered weakly through the window, casting long shadows across the room. Everything was exactly as her grandmother had left it. Roe’s eyes swept over the wooden easel, the jars of brushes, the stacks of canvas leaning against the wall. She inhaled deeply, letting the memories sting her chest. As she turned to leave, something on the worktable caught her eye a thin, leather bound sketchbook she had never seen before. Its cover was deep brown, almost black, with a faint golden symbol pressed into the center: a circle with a single brushstroke through it. Her fingers trembled as she touched it. The moment she opened the cover, a soft pulse of warmth traveled up her arm. She gasped and nearly dropped the book. Inside the sketchbook, nestled between blank pages, lay a single paintbrush. It was unlike any brush she had ever seen. The handle was smooth ebony wood, carved with tiny swirling patterns. The bristles shimmered faintly, shifting between silver and gold, as if they couldn’t decide which color to be. A breath escaped her. “What… are you?” Her grandmother never owned anything like this. Roe held the brush carefully, the way one might hold something alive. The warmth in her hand intensified, spreading up to her wrist and then her elbow, gentle but insistent. Her pulse quickened. Outside, the quiet sky seemed to lean closer, waiting. Without thinking, she dipped the brush into an old jar of water on the table. The moment the bristles touched the surface, the water rippled with color—spirals of blue, pink, and gold spreading like blooming flowers. Roe stumbled back, heart racing. That was impossible. The colors rose from the jar, hovering in the air, swirling softly. Before she could react, they shot upward and slipped out the window, streaking across the blank sky like sparks. Roe rushed to the doorway and looked up. A streak of brilliant blue cut across the quiet sky, bright and alive, as though the world had taken its first breath in a long time. Her chest loosened. The sky wasn’t silent anymore. And neither was she.