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It’s dark still, but it’s morning. You can hear the birds speaking before the light decides to show itself. The horn of 7:07 shatters what’s left of the night, and the first wave starts moving. Coffee starts brewing. Doors open. Feet shuffle down hallways like everyone’s been called to the same quiet roll call.

You stand there for a minute, cup in hand, listening to the low chatter of people on their way to the unknown. Same as every morning. Same routine. Same small noises that remind you the world is still turning whether you feel like joining it or not.

It takes a special sort of person to be an involved writer. Odd fellows, most of us. We sit around with our notebooks and half-finished thoughts, staring at things too long, hearing things nobody else notices, thinking about nothing in particular until it turns into something we can’t ignore.

I sat down at the desk and stared at the screen like I always do, waiting for the mind to decide what kind of trouble it wanted today.

That’s when I saw the sentence.

“She ran her hand beneath the park bench and sure enough, just as he said, she felt the envelope secured there by tape.“

I read it once.

Then again.

I didn’t remember writing it.

That happens sometimes, but not like that. Usually there’s a trace of it in your head somewhere, some leftover thought you forgot you had. This one felt like it had been typed by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

I leaned back, rubbed my eyes, then stood up to stretch. My shoulders cracked like old wood shifting in the cold. I rolled my neck once, twice, and just stood there staring at the wall, waiting for the feeling to pass.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft fluttering, somewhere behind me, like wings brushing the air.

I froze for a second, then let out a slow breath.

Yeah… that again.

I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside, figuring a walk might clear the head before the day got any stranger.

The air hit cool against my face, but something felt off right away. It took a second to understand what it was.

There was no color.

The street, the houses, the trees, the sky — all of it looked drained, like an old photograph left too long in the sun. Black, white, and every tired shade in between.

I stopped on the sidewalk and looked around.

“Really?” I said, to nobody anyone else could see.

I felt the warm breath against my ear before I heard her voice.

“Don’t be scared… it’s around the corner,” Ursula whispered.

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“Fucking Ursula,” I said, louder than I meant to.

I looked around quick to see if anyone heard me lose my shit. A woman walking her dog didn’t even glance my way. A car rolled past like the world was perfectly normal.

I turned to my right.

“What’s around the corner?”

She wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

I stood there another second, then started walking anyway.

The world stayed black and white as I moved down the block. No color anywhere. Just shapes and shadows and the sound of my own footsteps hitting the pavement.

I turned the corner.

That’s when I saw it.

At first it was just a shape near the park. Then a figure. Then a woman standing beside the bench like she’d been there longer than the rest of the street.

Everything about her was colorless, the same washed-out gray as the world around her.

Everything except her lips.

Bright blue.

Not painted bright, not glossy, just there, like the only thing in the world that remembered what color was supposed to be.

A thin trail of smoke curled upward from the cigarette holder between her fingers, the ember glowing faint against the dull air.

She didn’t look at me.

She was focused on the bench, one hand sliding underneath the wood like she already knew what she’d find there.

Across the sidewalk, a man shuffled toward her, clothes hanging loose, eyes moving too fast, voice bouncing from one word to the next like he couldn’t decide which thought to keep.

“Hey… hey… you got any change… spare anything… anything helps… you know how it is… just a little… just—”

His voice sounded scatty, like a radio stuck between stations.

She didn’t even turn her head.

“Scram,” she said.

The word cut through the air sharper than it should have.

The man stopped, blinked once, then backed away like he’d just remembered somewhere else he needed to be.

From somewhere deeper in the park, a woman let out a short, sharp scream, the sound snapping through the black-and-white morning and fading just as fast as it came.

The woman at the bench didn’t react.

Her hand found the envelope taped underneath, fingers closing around it like she’d written the scene herself.

I stood there on the sidewalk, hands in my pockets, watching something I already knew the ending to.

I let out a breath and shook my head.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Alright.”

The color didn’t come back.

The street stayed silent.

I turned and walked home, not in any hurry, just letting the scene settle where it wanted to settle.

When I got back inside, the screen was still glowing the way I left it.

The same sentence sat there waiting.

The cursor blinked at the end of the line, patient as ever.

I pulled the chair out, sat down, and rested my hands on the keyboard.

“Alright,” I said quietly.

“Let’s see what’s around the corner.”