The Tale of Colours

The Tale of Colours

Rita had always believed that colours could speak.

Red whispered courage, blue carried silences, yellow laughed like a careless afternoon, and white—white knew how to wait.

She lived in a small house at the edge of the old town, where the walls were bare but her window was always open. Every morning, light spilled in like an uninvited guest, brushing her face in pale gold. Rita would smile—not because life was kind, but because colours still remembered her.

Once, her world had been bright.

As a child, Rita mixed watercolours without fear. She let green melt into blue, allowed black to touch white, never worrying about rules. Her mother used to say, “Life is just a canvas, Rita. Don’t be afraid of stains.”

But life, over time, chose different shades.

A long silence entered her days—the kind that turns colours dull. Loss came quietly, like grey dust settling over everything. Rita stopped painting. She folded her brushes, wrapped them in old cloth, and placed them inside a wooden box under her bed. The walls stayed empty. The window still open.

Years passed.

One evening, during a sudden rain, Rita noticed something unusual. A thin line of colour had appeared on the wall—reflected from outside. A broken piece of stained glass from a neighbour’s window scattered light into her room: red, blue, violet, trembling with the rain.

For the first time in years, Rita felt something stir.

She opened the box.

The brushes were dry, stiff with neglect, but familiar. Her hands hesitated—then moved. Blue came first. Not the deep blue of oceans, but the fragile blue of unfinished thoughts. Then yellow—soft, forgiving. A touch of red followed, careful this time, as if asking permission.

The canvas did not become beautiful.

It became honest.

There were uneven strokes, sudden darkness, unexpected brightness. Rita realized then—colours were never meant to hide pain. They were meant to hold it.

That night, she painted until dawn.

When the sun rose, the canvas glowed—not because it was perfect, but because it was alive. Rita stepped back, her fingers stained, her eyes wet, her heart strangely light.

She finally understood.

Life does not return our lost colours.
It asks us to create new ones.

Rita opened the window wider.

Outside, the world waited—unfinished, uncertain, and full of space for colour.


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