Chapter 1
The Encounter
Out on the horizon, snow-topped mountains bloomed in the alpenglow of the rising sun. Below, a forest of sessile oaks stood stripped of its autumn cloak, now blanketed in fresh, silent snow.
A blade of golden light cut between the half-closed curtains, painting the windowsill.
Beep… Beep… Beep. 7:30 AM.
She stirred, eyelids fluttering against the sting of the light. Pushing aside the warm blanket, she sat up and stretched, a deep sigh of relief escaping her lips. The night had been long and restless, the cold winter gnawing at her pale skin. Her hand found the alarm clock, and with a click, peace reclaimed the room. The air itself stood still.
Leaving the cozy embrace of her bed, she moved to the window and drew the silk curtains apart. The world outside her eyes was a serene composition in shades of white, gray, and charcoal—a masterful sketch on a white canvas. The same view as always, yet subtly different.
She hobbled down the wooden steps, each one lazier than the last. In the bathroom, she stared at her monochromatic reflection for a full minute before the daily routine: toothbrush, toothpaste, a quick shower. A towel blotted the water from her pale skin.
Tick… Tick… Tick. 7:43 AM.
The kitchen was illuminated by the weak winter light from the windows. A plate waited, accompanied by a note:
Good morning,
I made you your favorite—honey toast.
Do eat it on the way to school.
Mom
P.S. Don't forget your scarf!
She casually grabbed the toast and left, the front door clicking shut behind her. School was only ten minutes away. She had time to spare.
Around the corner, a gust of wind sent a spray of fresh snow glittering like dusted diamonds from a pine bough. It also snatched a sheet of paper from the hands of a boy struggling with an overstuffed portfolio. A flurry of charcoal sketches and watercolour studies—a chaotic, vibrant bloom of colour—scattered across the pristine snow. 7:49 AM.
"Oh, biscuits!" he yelped, his tone more exasperated than angry.
Without thinking, she stepped off the path, her hand snapping out to catch a page as it pirouetted past her face. It was a study of the very mountains she saw every morning, but these were drenched in impossible, glorious colour—violet shadows and a sunrise of fiery orange.
"Here," she said, her voice softer than she'd used all morning.
Her eyes moved from his paint-stained fingers back to the world, and the monochrome film over her vision shattered.
The sky was a searing, crystalline cerulean. The sun was a bold vermilion disc, setting the snowy canvas ablaze. Its light was liquid gold that dripped from every branch and danced in the glittering snow. The world wasn't just different; it was alive.
He looked up, his face a canvas of freckles and relief. "Thank you! You have no idea how much this helps."
As they gathered the pages together—her hands sorting deep blue seascapes beside bold, abstract red shapes—the world transformed from a faded photograph into a riotous gallery. 7:55 AM.
With the pages safely in his arms, he offered a jovial grin. They resumed their walk, but the silence between them was now a presence, a third entity.
"The sun is surprisingly bright today," he said, falling into step beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "It makes everything look… different, don't you think?"
"Yes," she said, and for the first time that morning, her lips softened into something like a smile. "Different."
She still had a lot of time to spare. But now, for the first time, it felt like a gift. 8:00 AM.
A breeze whispered past, lifting a few stray strands of hair across her face. With it, the memory of colour was dragged across her vision—a phantom smear of vermilion and azure. Her breath caught. The boy beside her was no longer just a person; he was a path. And she had to follow.
"I just realised," his voice, warm and apologetic, fractured the silence. She flinched. The world of colour vanished, the grey filter seamlessly re-applied. He turned toward her, his expression mildly embarrassed. "I never gave you my name. I'm Charles."
She retrieved her own name from a great distance. "Charlotte."
"Charlotte." He tested the word, giving it a new shape. A nod passed between them. The silence stretched, a taut wire strung between them.
She couldn't let the conversation end. He was her sole tether to that other, vibrant world. Her eyes were drawn back to the mountains, now faded to mere outlines again.
"The mountains," she heard herself say. "In your painting… you made them look alive."
He studied her face, a slow smile touching his lips. "Alive," he repeated, tasting the word. "Yes." His gaze held hers, and for a moment, the grey at the edges of her vision thinned. "It's funny, isn't it? How most people are content to see things as… still."
He paused, letting the thought hang in the frozen air. His eyes finally released hers.
"Not you, though."
His observation was met with a silence filled with the weight of her own truth. The correction formed in her mind, a quiet, desperate confession she would never voice:
To me, the world is not alive.
It is greyscaled.
A hundred shades of white, registered.
Fifty shades of grey, catalogued.
Twenty-five shades of black, endured.
The walk continued down the snowy pavement.
"Yeah," she muttered, a quiet concession to the chasm between them—a chasm she had spent a lifetime beautifully papering over. 8:06 AM.
The school gates loomed in the distance. They strolled up to the grandiose entrance, where a crowd of students stood motionless around the central fountain. Their chatter was drowned by the roar of water as plumes arced and crossed in the sun, weaving a shimmering, ephemeral cage before collapsing back with a thunderous splash.
Charlotte offered the spectacle a dismissive glance before turning toward the cold marble of the noticeboard. Her ashen fingers glided past the familiar blur of black ink on white paper. Behind her, Charles stood rooted to the cement, his entire being poured into the spectacle of light and motion.
"This would make a fine piece…" he muttered to himself before shaking off his reverie.
His gaze drifted back to where Charlotte had stood, expecting to find her quiet patience. Instead, he found only a pool of empty sunlight. A faint, curious smile touched his lips. His eyes, alight with amusement rather than alarm, swept across the courtyard. A flicker of a navy blazer there, a glimpse of silver hair there, but none of them resolved into her. She had simply vanished into the tapestry of the bright, mellow day. 8:10 AM.
Meanwhile, Charlotte paced the art exhibit, her deadpan eyes moving from one oil painting to another charcoal sketch. It was, as usual, a nuisance to tell them apart without grazing the surface. She stopped before one particular charcoal sketch. A winter garden, rendered in meticulous, loving greys. Of course. A hollow ache bloomed behind her ribs—the familiar ache of confirmation. Then, the moment passed. Then, the moment passed. She walked away, climbing the wooden stairs past rows of pale, silent marble sculptures, her uniform the only thing marking her as something breathing.
She turned a corner and was met with a modern double door. The plaque above was etched with the words: "Art Studio."
Charles meandered along the gravel paths of the academy's garden, losing himself in its vastness. A gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of damp soil. His gaze drifted to a low, sheltered spot along the stone wall, where a patch of Algerian Irises defied the season. Their delicate, violet-blue petals, striated with veins of a deeper amethyst, glowed from within, each dewdrop a trembling prism.
"Such beautiful flowers…" he thought, his mind already mixing the brushstrokes—a wash of cobalt violet, a whisper of ultramarine.
With a sigh of resignation, he pulled out his phone, a poor substitute for the weight of a brush. He crouched, framing the shot, chasing not just the image, but the feeling—the specific, magical quality of the light. Satisfied with the inadequate record, he stood, letting the scene sear itself into his memory. The world expanded once more, the chatter of students rushing back in.
He was refocused. The garden's allure was archived and set aside. A new objective took hold.
"She's not in the garden… Guess I'll have to look elsewhere." His thoughts of the irises had stalled his search. "Maybe a visit to the Art Studio before that." 8:22 AM.
A sudden chill crept down his neck, coaxing out a soft, involuntary sneeze. He sniffled, mumbling, "I just realised how cold it got… Should have brought my scarf…"
He hurriedly left the snow-decorated garden, slipping inside the academy's halls with a comfortable sigh as warmth enveloped him. His mind narrowed to a single, silent objective—to find the quiet girl, Charlotte.
The answer came to him all at once like a bulb lighting up—the Art Studio.
He didn't hesitate. Charles broke into a sprint, his portfolio clutched to his chest.
He dodged through the crowded corridors, his heart hammering and his lungs rasping for air. He sprinted up the wooden steps, flew past the marble statues, and turned the corner—finally barging into the Art Studio and slamming the door shut.
The sound echoed and faded. He stood there, chest heaving, and looked up.
She was standing in the center of the room, already facing him, her expression unreadable.
Still panting, he met her gaze.
"There you are," he managed, the words bursting out with his breath. "I've been searching for you everywhere." 8:27 AM.