The November Indigo

The city was draped in a November indigo that settled deep in the bones, a colour Ashley knew intimately. It mirrored the ache in her chest, the perpetual twilight of her own interior landscape. It wasn't the dramatic, weeping grey of a full-blown storm or the crisp, clean azure of a promising spring. No, it was a flat, oppressive indigo, the kind that sucked the light from everything, leaving only a muted, colourless residue.

Ashley stood at her kitchen window, the condensation blurring the already bleak view. Opposite her, the skeletal branches of the old oak in the park clawed at the sky, mimicking the anxiety that always seemed to be reaching for her. The wind, a low, mournful sigh, rattled the windowpane, a constant reminder of the fragility of things.

She’d always been attuned to the weather and felt its pull like the moon’s tide. When she was happy, the sun seemed to shine a little brighter, and the air tasted sweeter. During her marriage, summers had been endless stretches of golden light, autumns painted in vibrant, fiery hues. But since Daniel left, everything had been filtered through this persistent indigo.

Five years since he’d announced, with a forced casualness, that he was “finding himself” in Bali. He’d left with a backpack and a yoga mat, promising to stay in touch. He hadn’t.  Ashley had built her life around him, a life meticulously crafted from shared dreams, quiet evenings, and the comforting certainty of their presence in each other’s lives. He was the sturdy oak, and she was the ivy, twining around him for support. Now, the oak was gone, and she was left clinging to thin air, struggling to find her own roots in the unforgiving soil.

She stirred her coffee, the steam momentarily clearing a small patch on the glass. It wasn’t just the loss of Daniel, though that was a cavernous wound. It was the realisation that she hadn’t cultivated anything independent of him. Her career as a librarian, once a passionate pursuit, had become a monotonous routine. Her friendships had withered, starved of attention as she poured all her energy into nurturing their relationship.

The indigo outside deepened, as if the sky itself were empathising with her despair. A sudden gust rattled the window again, making her jump. She needed to do something, anything, to break free from this suffocating inertia.

She’d been invited to a gallery opening, a retrospective of a local artist known for his bold, vibrant landscapes. She usually avoided social gatherings, preferring the solitary comfort of her books. The thought of facing a room full of chattering strangers felt daunting, even terrifying.

But then she remembered the artist’s work—explosions of colour, unapologetic joy rendered in oils. Maybe, just maybe, a dose of that vibrancy was what she needed.

As she dressed, the indigo outside seemed to mock her attempt at optimism. The wind picked up, howling now, a banshee wail echoing her own internal grief. She chose a simple black dress, a colour that had become her uniform of late. She caught her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back was pale; her eyes rimmed with fatigue. She looked like a shadow, swallowed by the pervasive gloom.

At the gallery, the contrast between the paintings and the weather outside was striking. Canvas blazed with fiery sunsets, lush green meadows, and sapphire seas. People milled around, their voices a low hum of appreciation, glasses clinking merrily.

Ashley felt like an alien, a creature from the indigo depths struggling to breathe in this atmosphere of light and colour. She found a corner, nursing a glass of wine, watching the other attendees. She noticed a couple, their hands intertwined, laughing at some private joke. A pang of longing, sharp and familiar, pierced her heart.

Then she saw him. He was standing in front of a large canvas depicting a field of sunflowers, his back to her. He was tall, with silver hair neatly combed back and a tweed jacket that spoke of quiet sophistication. There was something about his posture—a certain stillness—that drew her in.  He turned, and their eyes met. His were a startling shade of blue, the colour of a summer sky—a stark contrast to the indigo that dominated her world. He smiled, a warm, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, gesturing towards the sunflowers.

Ashley nodded, unable to speak. Her throat felt tight, constricted by years of unspoken emotions.

“I’m Thomas,” he offered, extending his hand.

“Ashley,” she managed, her voice a little shaky.

They talked for what felt like minutes but was probably closer to an hour. He was an architect, recently retired. He spoke about his love for nature, his travels, and his passion for art. He listened with genuine interest as Ashley, hesitantly at first, shared fragments of her life. She told him about her love for books, her quiet life at the library, and the ache of loneliness that had become her constant companion. She carefully avoided mentioning Daniel.

As they spoke, she noticed something remarkable happening. The indigo outside seemed to be softening, diluting. The wind still howled, but it no longer felt like a personal attack. The gallery lights seemed to grow brighter, casting a warm glow on Thomas’s face.

Later, as the evening drew to a close, Thomas walked Ashley to her car. The sky was still a deep indigo, but now a few stars were beginning to peek through the clouds.

“I enjoyed talking to you, Ashley,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “Perhaps we could do it again?”

Ashley’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t felt this flutter of hope in years.

“I’d like that very much,” she replied, a genuine smile finally gracing her lips.

As she drove home, the wind seemed to carry a different tune, a softer, more gentle melody. The indigo sky was still there, but it no longer felt oppressive. It was as if a crack had appeared in the darkness, allowing a sliver of light to filter through.  The next morning, she woke to a surprise. The indigo had lifted. A weak, watery sun peeked through the clouds, casting a hesitant glow on the city. It wasn’t a dramatic transformation, but it was enough.

Ashley looked out her window at the old oak in the park. The branches still reached for the sky, but they no longer seemed to be clawing. They were reaching, instead, towards the promise of spring.  She thought of Thomas, his blue eyes, and his warm smile. A new feeling stirred within her, a tentative hope that perhaps, after all this time, the indigo was finally beginning to fade.

She knew that the weather, both inside and out, was a fickle thing. There would be days when the indigo returned, when the wind howled its mournful song. But now she had a memory of light, a flicker of warmth to hold onto. She had a reason to believe that even in the deepest November, the sun could still break through the clouds. And maybe, just maybe, she could find her own colours again, independent of any oak, strong enough to stand on her own, bathed in the light of a newly discovered dawn. The journey would be long, but for the first time in years, Ashley felt a sense of quiet determination, a fragile shoot pushing its way through the hardened soil, reaching towards the light. The indigo might linger, but it no longer defined her. The promise of spring, however faint, was enough.