(Hey hi guys!
Thank you so much for taking the time to read and support my novel. It really means a lot to me! This is actually my fourth novel, and I've poured a lot of heart and effort into building this unique adventure-fantasy journey. I hope it stands out from the rest and gives you an unforgettable ride through a world full of mystery, color, and emotion.
Your comments truly motivate me to keep writing and growing. I'm grateful you're here, walking this path with me.
As a small gift, here's a sneak peek trailer of what's to come:)
(The Day I First Heard Color):-
I was five when I first heard the word color.
Not from my father — he never spoke of such things.
Not from the village priest, who only spoke in warnings and smoke.
It was from my grandmother, one quiet evening, as we sat beside the fire, waiting for the roots to finish roasting.
She was old then — older than time, I used to think. Her hands were rough with years, her voice soft like the wind through dry leaves. That night, she leaned in close, her breath warm and shaky against my ear. Her eyes didn't look at me, not really. They looked somewhere far away.
"Once," she whispered, "the sky was blue."
I blinked. "What's blue?"
She smiled, slow and sad, like someone remembering a dream they were never meant to wake from.
"And the trees," she said, turning the roots on the coals, "were green. The rivers shimmered silver, and people… oh, people wore colors on their skin. Red when they were angry. Yellow when they laughed."
I didn't understand.
To me, the world was black, white, and gray, like the soot that stuck to our skin after rain. Like the ash we swept from the hearth. Like the village. It's not like I can't see color 80% people can't see color in my world.
I tried to ask her more, but she only shook her head, eyes going distant again. "Hush, little one. No more tonight."
The fire crackled. A crow screamed in the trees. Somewhere behind us, my brothers were bickering over dry bread, and my sisters were trying to braid their hair in the dark.
But I kept hearing her words: blue, green, red, yellow. They didn't mean anything. But they felt like something. Like magic.
The next morning, at breakfast, I asked my father.
Just a question.
"What's blue?"
He froze.
Then, without a word, he slammed his hand down on the table so hard that my wooden cup split down the middle. Water bled across the planks. My heart jumped into my throat.
"Never speak of that filth again," he said.
My brothers laughed. My sisters giggled behind their sleeves, eyes wide with fear.
I didn't laugh.
I didn't speak again for the rest of the day.
In our house, and in our world, silence was safer than truth.
But that night, when the fire had died and the others were asleep, I climbed the creaky ladder to the roof of our hut — one slow step at a time, careful not to wake the house.
The wind was cold. The sky above was empty — no stars, just pale clouds smeared across it like bruises.
I stood there barefoot, shivering.
I looked up.
And I whispered.
"God… if you're real… show me what they saw."
I don't know what I expected.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe a dream.
But something heard me.
Because the clouds above twisted.
The wind went still.
And then, without warning, the sky split open.
There was no thunder. No sound. Just light.
A bolt of white flame tore through the clouds and struck me straight in the chest.
I didn't scream.
There was no time.
Everything went black.
And then—
I saw it.
Not just white. But color.
Red. Blue. Yellow. Green. Purple. Orange.
Seven of them — each burning in the air like fire given shape.
They swirled around me, alive. Moving. Breathing. Like they had been waiting.
And then I saw her.
A girl — or maybe something more.
She hovered among the colors, her hair long and white as bone, her eyes wide and glowing with fear.
She looked straight at me.
And then—
Darkness.
I woke up three days later in the hay shed.
My mouth was dry. My body ached. My skin burned where the light had touched me.
But worse than the pain… was the shouting.
"HE SAW COLOR!" my father roared. "HE SAID IT OUT LOUD!"
My heart dropped. I couldn't even sit up. I listened, frozen, as the house erupted.
My mother tried to stop him, but he was already grabbing the axe. I heard the wooden floor creak under his steps, and her crying—real crying, not the quiet kind she saved for late nights.
"If the village finds out," he snarled, "they'll burn all of us!"
And then—her voice, broken but sharp:
"Run, Irori."
She turned to me through the crack in the shed door, her face pale and streaked with tears.
"Don't stop running."
So I did.
I didn't pack. Didn't eat. I ran barefoot into the trees, the frost biting my skin, my breath catching in sobs.
Behind me: voices, fire, chaos.
Ahead of me: nothing but night.
That was the day I lost my home.
The day I saw the world for the first time.
The day I was born again…
…into color.
To be continue...