Nora and the Day the Colors Hid

A Pale Morning
Nora woke to an ordinary sound: the whistle of the kettle and the soft thump of her mother's shoes on the kitchen tiles. When she peered out of her window, the row of houses across the street looked as if someone had taken a soft broom and swept their colors away. The tulips in Mrs. Rivera's windows looked pale and shy, and even the painted door of the bakery had soft-gray frosting instead of its usual cheerful blue. Nora rubbed her eyes; the world should have been bright with color: the red of the school bus, the green of the park grass, the purple ribbon on old Mr. Flynn's hat. But here, everything hung like a picture someone had put under glass, muted and soft. Her little sketchbook lay on the table, open to a half-finished drawing of a parrot that had been brilliant with greens and blues yesterday. Nora ran her finger along the parrot's beak in the drawing; the paper felt the same but the color she remembered had been turned down as if someone had eased a dimmer switch. Outside, no birds were bright enough to catch her eye; a sparrow that usually wore a tiny brown cap looked thin and gray, and the leaves on the maple seemed to forget how to smile. At breakfast, her mother hurried through toast and jam and said only that it was probably fog and the light would come back by noon. Her father kissed the top of her head and left with his briefcase, looking at the street as if he, too, were puzzled but hurried. Nora felt small and important at the same time, as if she held a secret that the grownups couldn't see. She put on her rain boots because they were bright red and made her feel like a small, brave explorer. Her sketchbook slid into her backpack with a soft zip, and she slipped outside to see what the rest of the street looked like. Down the lane, the blue bicycle that belonged to her neighbor Mr. Henson leaned in the same dull shade, so she hopped onto the low stone wall and walked closer.