CHAPTER ONE: THE COLOR OF ORDINARY
887 Words
Arin Solace believed, quite firmly, that if colours had feelings, grey would be tired.
Not sad exactly. Not angry. Just… tired.
She thought this as she stood by the kitchen window, chin resting on folded arms, watching the early morning stretch itself slowly across the city. The sky outside was painted in pale grey, the kind that looked undecided, as though it hadn’t yet chosen what sort of day it wanted to be.
Behind her, the small apartment stirred with familiar sounds.
The soft click of the toaster.
The quiet whistle of the kettle.
The gentle hum of her mother’s voice.
Elowen Solace always hummed in the mornings. Not loudly, not like people who sang to fill silence, but softly, like the melody lived somewhere inside her and simply drifted out as she moved.
Arin liked that about her.
Their apartment sat above Bramble & Crust, the bakery whose ovens woke long before most of the world. By six each morning, the air was already thick with sugar and warmth. Cinnamon curled into every corner. Vanilla lingered along the hallway. Even Arin’s school jumper carried the faint scent of bread no matter how often it was washed.
Some girls at school thought it was “cute.”
Others thought it was “weird.”
Arin wasn’t sure which bothered her more.
“You’re thinking again.”
Her mother’s voice floated toward her, threaded with amusement.
Arin didn’t turn immediately. “I’m always thinking.”
Elowen laughed softly. “Yes, and that is both your greatest gift and your greatest exhaustion.”
Arin glanced back.
Elowen stood at the counter in her pale blue work uniform, sleeves rolled neatly, dark hair gathered into a loose knot that was already surrendering strands. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes — the soft bruised colour of too many long shifts — yet her smile was warm, steady, unhurried.
It amazed Arin sometimes, how her mother could look so tired and still manage to appear like the gentlest person in any room.
“What is it this morning?” Elowen asked, sliding toast onto a chipped white plate.
Arin shrugged. “Just… grey.”
Elowen tilted her head. “Grey?”
“The sky. It looks tired.”
Elowen walked over, placing the plate beside her daughter. She followed Arin’s gaze out the window, thoughtful.
“I think,” Elowen said after a moment, “grey is patient.”
Arin frowned. “Patient?”
“It waits. Between storm and sun. Between night and brightness. Grey holds space.”
Arin considered this.
She liked the idea, though she wasn’t sure she agreed.
Grey still felt tired.
They ate breakfast at the small wooden table near the balcony door. Toast. Honey. Tea for Elowen, milk for Arin. The morning light filtered through thin curtains, soft and diffused.
On the table lay a folded note written in Elowen’s looping handwriting.
Don’t forget your science book.
Lunch is in the blue container.
Be kind today, my star.
Arin traced the last line with her finger.
“My star.”
Her mother had called her that since she was little. Back when scraped knees were tragedies and hugs solved nearly everything.
“Do you ever get tired of saying that?” Arin asked.
“Saying what?”
“My star.”
Elowen looked genuinely surprised. “Never.”
Arin lowered her eyes. “Even when I’m not very… star-like?”
Elowen reached across the table, covering Arin’s hand with her own.
“You don’t shine by being loud, Arin.”
Arin swallowed.
At school, shining seemed to require noise.
Confidence.
Brightness.
Effortless belonging.
She possessed none of these.
Outside, the city continued waking. Car doors slammed. Voices rose. A dog barked somewhere below. The world always felt faster once breakfast ended.
Elowen checked the time and sighed — not heavily, but with the quiet resignation of routine.
“I have an early shift.”
“I know.”
They moved through the choreography of departure.
Shoes.
Bag.
Hair hastily smoothed.
At the door, Elowen knelt, pressing a kiss to Arin’s forehead.
“Remember,” she whispered.
Arin smiled faintly. “Be kind.”
Elowen’s eyes softened. “Always.”
Then she was gone.
And the apartment felt immediately larger.
Quieter.
Arin lingered for a moment before stepping onto the narrow balcony. The morning air was cool, brushed with the sweetness of baking bread drifting upward.
She leaned against the railing.
The sky stretched wide above her.
Grey.
But something was different.
Just beyond her bedroom window — where sky should have been empty — hovered a small, oddly shaped cloud.
Too low.
Too still.
Too close.
Arin blinked.
Clouds did not linger outside second-floor balconies.
She rubbed her eyes.
The cloud remained.
A dense, muted grey puff, edges trembling slightly as though uncertain of its own existence.
Arin’s heartbeat quickened.
“Okay…” she murmured.
The cloud shifted.
And then—
“…Hello.”
Arin froze.
Her breath caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.
The voice was soft. Small. Almost… shy.
Arin stared.
“…Hello?” she whispered back.
The grey cloud wobbled faintly.
“I was hoping you’d notice.”
Arin’s fingers tightened around the balcony rail.
Because clouds did not speak.
And yet—
Here was one.
Waiting.
Grey.
And very, very tired.
- Writer
