For days after his visit to the café, Adrian couldn't shake the feeling. It was as though something had cracked open inside him, allowing fragments of color to seep in.
On the train ride to work, he found himself staring out the window. Not at the blur of passing buildings — he had seen those before, a thousand times — but at the soft pink streaks of dawn brushing across the sky. He realized he couldn't remember the last time he had noticed a sunrise.
At lunch, he passed the flower stand near the café. A spray of wildflowers caught his attention — not the roses or lilies, polished and perfect, but the messy bouquet of daisies, marigolds, and violets. Their colors clashed, yet somehow they belonged together. Adrian stood there longer than he meant to, until the florist smiled knowingly and said, "Sometimes we need a little chaos to remember beauty."
That night, as he walked home, he passed a street performer. A young violinist, her case open on the ground, bow dancing against strings with a passion that seemed to light up the street. People gathered, their faces lifted, softened, transformed by the sound. Adrian stopped, too. He didn't know the song, but something about it tugged at him — a reminder that life carried melodies even if you weren't listening.
It was strange. The city hadn't changed. The people hadn't changed. But Adrian had.
Colors were everywhere now, as though the world had been painted overnight. The red of a child's balloon, the deep green of ivy climbing brick walls, the golden warmth of streetlights flickering on at dusk. Each shade whispered something: Look closer. Don't rush. Life is more than shadows.
Adrian didn't yet know what this meant for him, or where it was leading. But for the first time in years, he felt a pull — not the dull tug of obligation, but the gentle nudge of curiosity.
And curiosity, he realized, was its own kind of color.