Bunt climbed the creaky attic ladder, one hand on the splintered rail. Dust floated in pale shafts of light. At the far end, something glinted beneath a sagging drop cloth — a wooden box, old and waiting.
The brass clasp clicked open. A thick ribbon of red paint slid out like a living thing, pooling across the floorboards — warm, glossy, impossibly bright. Bunt pressed a finger in. Color. Real color.
Bunt grabbed a brush from the box and dipped it deep. The first stroke hit the main street — cobblestones shimmered, then blazed bright blue. The color held. Bunt dipped again, again, painting stripes of yellow and green across every sleepy house.
The houses glowed. Yellow and green stripes wrapped around every window, every door. Bunt stepped back and let out a breath. The whole street shimmered — not gray anymore. Not ever gray again.
Bunt reached the town square and dipped the brush toward the fountain. The bristles slipped — splat! A fat glob of purple landed right in the center. The ripple spread outward, fast, climbing the stone rim like a vine.
Bunt laughed — a bright, surprised sound — and kept painting. But the colors wouldn't settle. They slipped, blended, danced. Purple seeped into blue. Yellow melted into green. Every stroke became something new.
The brush kept slipping. Bunt lifted the lid to steady it — and the whole box tipped forward. A wave of every color tumbled out at once: gold, crimson, violet, lime, every shade spilling over the edges like a broken rainbow.
Color erupted everywhere. The sky blushed crimson. The houses spun gold and violet. The fountain bloomed lime. Bunt stood in the center, breath caught, as the whole town transformed around them in a whirlwind of impossible brightness.
The town spun with bright, impossible color. Every surface — wall, window, cobblestone, sky — blazed with a brilliance no one had ever seen. Bunt breathed in the painted air and thought: This is what the world should look like.
Doors opened. Neighbors stepped into the street, pointing, gasping, laughing. A little one ran past with a rainbow-streaked face and held up a newly colored flower — petals of every shade — right to Bunt.
Bunt took the flower, turned it slowly in their fingers. So many colors. More than anyone had ever seen. The child bounced on their toes, waiting for the next stroke.
Bunt smiled, reached down, and dipped the brush back into the box. There was still so much to paint. The whole world was waiting.