The morning sun casts a golden glow over the rolling hills of Kerala. Anaya stands on the balcony of her family home, a cup of chai warming her hands. Before her stretches a sea of blue-green tea plantations, a living, breathing painting. Above it all, the sky is a clear, gentle blue, the same pale shade as her favourite sari. Today is special: she is setting out to find the lake her grandmother once described as being as blue as the sky itself.She slips on her sandals and makes her way through the village. The houses along the road form a mosaic of blues, from deep indigo to soft turquoise, as if the colour itself has taken root here. Children are already playing outside, their laughter carrying through the cool morning air. A boy in a dark blue shirt dashes past her. Anaya stops him to ask for directions to the lake. He grins, points eagerly down the road and runs off again, his bare feet scattering droplets of dew as he goes.Soon the path narrows and begins to twist as she enters the forest. Above her, the canopy arches like a vaulted ceiling, pierced by shafts of sunlight that ripple across the ground in shifting tones of blue and green. Birds call from high in the trees, while the quiet murmur of a nearby stream keeps her company. Wrapped in colour and sound, Anaya feels a calm, instinctive bond with the landscape.

On a gentle spring day, when the world was waking in soft shades of pink and purple, a small hydrangea bloomed quietly in the corner of the garden. She was unlike the other flowers; her petals held a delicate harmony of colours, shifting from pale blush to deep lavender, much like the dawn sky as morning breaks.The hydrangea was called Rosa and she often felt a little alone. Around her, the other flowers flaunted their vivid colours with confidence, bold and exuberant. Rosa, by contrast, flowered in silence, her pinks and purples blending seamlessly, like the tender glow of sunrise. Yet deep within, she sensed there was something special about her hues … subtle, easily overlooked, but quietly powerful.One day, a young girl passed through the garden, wearing a light pink dress that echoed Rosa’s colours. Sadness lingered in her eyes, as though she carried a loss too private to name. She walked past the brighter blooms without pausing, until her gaze fell upon Rosa, still and serene in her simplicity. The girl knelt and gently brushed a fingertip across one of Rosa’s petals.

In a quiet little village, where the days drifted by in muted silence, lived Lina, a young artist with a remarkable gift: she could feel colours. To her, colours weren’t simply shades on a surface, but stories, emotions and voices that resonated deep within. Her studio, an enchanting space with tall windows that let daylight dance over rows of paint pots, brushes and unfinished canvases, was her sanctuary. Splashes of colour covered the walls, each one a fragment of her creative journey. Yet despite the vibrancy around her, Lina felt confined, waiting for something she couldn’t quite name.During a walk along an old path, she stumbled upon a book with a weathered leather cover. The title was barely visible, but the words Colours show the way stirred her curiosity. Though its pages were blank, the book felt strangely alive in her hands. Back in her studio that evening, she could no longer resist opening it. As soon as she gently touched an empty page with her brush, something magical happened: the colours on her palette began to blend on their own, forming a vivid image. A soft purple glow filled the room, carrying a gentle whisper; one that spoke of hope.

Before Marcel turns onto the path, he checks his rear-view mirror one last time to make sure he’s alone. The track winds into the woods, so well hidden that most people don’t even know it exists. He lowers the headlights and drives deeper into the darkness until his car can go no further.He switches off the engine. Marcel has been coming here for years and knows the area better than anyone. Still, though he’s certain no one is around, he glances about before getting out. From the boot he lifts a large outdoor sports bag and drags it towards the lake. The closer he gets, the heavier it seems to become. At the water’s edge, a narrow wooden jetty awaits. He walks to the very end, sets the bag down and stares across the lake.

The sea rolled gently against the shore. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic, a sigh that never truly faded. The water gleamed in the golden morning light as the sun greeted her with a tender first touch. He warmed her waves, yet never enough to reach the secrets hidden deep within. His love was fleeting, always drifting on. She felt the warmth pull through her surface; a passion never fully realised, impossible to grasp.Her longing was a quiet call, heard only by the horizon. She wished she could hold on to the sun, but he was a lover who always slipped away into the distance, behind the mountains, to another part of the world. The sea moaned softly. Her waves crashed against the rocks in an attempt to mask her pain; a ritual, a constant dance of yearning and abandonment.