The Colours Between Us

The blaring sound of cars passing by filled the air of a decent-sized street, where pavement and trees lined up at uneven gaps. The street was unusually busy for a Sunday afternoon—normally, families would be at the nearby pond or lounging inside their houses. Cardboard boxes lined the pavement, filled with books, old china, and forgotten trinkets, while neighbors milled about, offering a hand or sorting through keepsakes.

It was a strange kind of gathering—not exactly a celebration, yet not quite a mourning.

Nadia had expected it to feel heavier. Moving out Aunt April’s things should have been solemn, a final farewell to a house that had stood still for three years since her passing. Instead, the process had a quiet rhythm. People lifted, packed, and reminisced with casual ease.

“This one’s quite light,” a voice commented beside her, startling her from her thoughts.

Nadia turned to see a man hoisting a box labeled PAINTINGS. He had a strong build—the kind of neighbor you’d be glad to have when your car battery died or your sink needed fixing—and he gave her an easy grin.

“You can probably handle that one on your own,” she mumbled.

“Oh, I wasn’t offering to share the weight. Just saying—April had an eye for art, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Nadia said, her voice softening. “She never painted herself, but she had a habit of collecting… interesting pieces.”

They set the box down on the porch, and he knelt to open it. His name was Sebastian—she remembered now. Seb, as her aunt used to call him. A chef who got laid off during the pandemic, he had sent her meals when she needed them and eventually started an online meal catering service. He lived just two houses down. Probably one of the few people who had seen the house when it was still full of life.

As Sebastian pulled out the first canvas, Nadia stifled a laugh. “Well. That’s… something.”

The painting was old, but not in a prestigious way. The edges of the canvas had browned slightly, and the colors looked like they’d been mixed with an unsteady hand. A smear of murky yellow, uneven strokes of green, a red blotch that may or may not have been intentional.

“It’s like Van Gogh had a headache,” Sebastian mused.

Nadia chuckled, folding her arms. “Or like Picasso tried painting with his eyes closed.”

Despite its awkwardness, the painting was compelling. There was something about the way the colors clashed that made it hard to look away.

“What do you think it’s supposed to be?” Sebastian asked, tilting his head.

“I was about to ask you,” Nadia countered.

They fell into quiet study, both stepping back to examine it like critics at an exhibition.

“Maybe it’s an abstract take on loneliness,” Sebastian guessed. “That yellow looks sickly, like it’s faded with time.”

Nadia arched an eyebrow. “I read that Van Gogh often used Indian yellow… Hey, you do realize that the pigment Indian yellow was once made from the urine of cows fed only mango leaves, right? Maybe the artist just had… peculiar taste.”

Sebastian snorted. “Okay, but that red splotch—it feels almost desperate, like the artist was trying to say something but couldn’t quite get the words out.”

“Or they just knocked over their paint cup.”

He shot her a look, half amused, half scandalized. “Nadia, I’m trying to be deep here.”

She smirked. “Fine, fine. How about this? Green is the color of rebirth in some cultures, but in others, it’s the color of death. Maybe the artist was torn between the two.”

Sebastian hummed in thought. “Could be. Though I’ve also heard that painters used to make brown out of crushed mummies. So if we’re unlucky, we might be looking at some poor pharaoh’s afterlife.”

She gasped in exaggerated horror. “Seb. That’s both disturbing and entirely on-brand for Aunt April’s taste in art.”

He grinned, pleased with himself, and—she noticed—a little giddy at hearing her use his shortened name. For a moment, it was easy to forget why they were here—to clear out a house no one had lived in for years, to sort through someone’s life in boxes.

Then a voice cut through their bubble.

“Oh, that one!” Mrs. Patel, the elderly neighbor from across the street, smiled warmly at the painting. “I always thought it was sweet that April kept it up.”

Nadia frowned. “She had it displayed?”

Mrs. Patel nodded. “For years. Ever since your cousin made it for a school project.”

There was a beat of silence.

Nadia blinked. “My… cousin?”

“Yes, dear. Must have been—oh, what, ten years ago? Little Adam from next door painted it in primary school. April promised she’d keep it safe until his mum came to collect it, but she never did. Poor thing must have forgotten about it.”

Sebastian’s shoulders shook. At first, Nadia thought he was coughing. Then she realized—he was laughing.

“You mean to tell me,” he gasped between chuckles, “we just spent ten minutes analyzing a ten-year-old’s art homework?”

Nadia covered her face with her hands. “I—oh my God.”

She burst out laughing too, the absurdity of it washing away any lingering heaviness. The grand interpretations, the symbolic struggles—they had all been for a child’s school project. And it’s my brother’s, nonetheless.

Still grinning, Sebastian held the painting up again. “I mean, to be fair, it does evoke emotion. Confusion. Regret. Amusement. A touch of nausea.”

Nadia wiped at her eyes, shaking her head. “Well, at least we gave it meaning.”

He lowered the canvas, studying her. “You know, I kind of like it now.”

She met his gaze, surprised by the warmth in his tone. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “It brought us together, didn’t it?”

A pause. The kind of pause that lingers just long enough to mean something. Then, with a small smile, Sebastian tucked the painting back into the box.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see what other masterpieces April left behind.”

Nadia followed, the weight of the day feeling just a little lighter.

Sebastian stopped abruptly. “You know, I need to make sure of something.”

Nadia tilted her head.

“You are Nadia, right? I just guessed because April used to talk about this wonderful niece over and over again every time we communicated,” his face turned a bit pensive, and he smiled, “...even before she passed.”

She smiled knowingly. “I wonder why. And yes, that would be me.”

As they moved to the next box, the painting sat quietly behind them—no longer mysterious, no longer profound, but still, in its own way, meaningful.