When I was five, I was in a car accident with my parents. For the most part, we came away okay. Bumps. Bruises. A very slight case of whiplash for my mother. Otherwise, we were all okay.

Except for my eyes. Ever since that accident, I’ve seen everything in shades of grey. Like watching an old movie, only it was actually the world around me.

I cried for days after the accident. For as long as my parents could remember, I had been fascinated by colour. No, not fascinated. Infatuated. Obsessed. Possessed.

I started painting when I was only three. Oh, hardly great works. Mickey Mouse was the Mona Lisa next to my art, but I didn’t care. It was the colours that mattered. They were all that mattered. Colours were my life.

And with one error in judgment, that was taken away from me.

Today, I saw the first colours I’ve seen in almost 15 years. They were even more vivid than what my memories could recall. More intense than my imagination could invent.

But why now? Why all of a sudden?

And why only her?

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