The Morning Before the Grey

Canvas Cat City woke up loud and bright every morning — the kind of bright that made you squint and grin at the same time.

From the very top of Crayon Cat Tower, the tallest, most ridiculous building in the city — shaped exactly like a giant crayon, yellow tip pointed proudly at the sky — Ms. Crayon Cat stood at the window in her black-and-blue supersuit and looked out over everything she loved.

Rooftops painted tangerine and teal. Market stalls draped in deep violet cloth. The big fountain in Central Square, its water catching the morning light in a dozen different colors at once.

Behind her, the tower's upper suite was warm and hushed. Two cat maids in neat white uniforms were still tucked in bed, little kiss marks dotting their cheeks, courtesy of Ms. Crayon Cat's fond, silly farewell.

She had curtsied — actually curtsied — and tiptoed out.

Now she stretched her gloved hands wide against the glass and smiled.

"Still perfect," she whispered.

Something Grey This Way Comes

Ms. Crayon Cat was still smiling at the window when her communicator — a small wristband that doubled as a phone — buzzed hard enough to rattle her glove.

The screen lit up with a shaky video call. On it was an elderly cat woman, short and round, with a mess of white curls and a voice like a squeaky door hinge.

"Ms. Crayon Cat! My name is Madame Purl — I sell yarn at the East Market! Something's wrong with my stall!"

Ms. Crayon Cat blinked. "Wrong how?"

"The colors!" Madame Purl held up a ball of yarn — and it was completely grey. "They were red this morning! I watched them go grey, right in front of me, one after another!"

Ms. Crayon Cat launched out the tower window and flew hard toward East Market.

She landed in three seconds flat — and stopped cold.

Every single stall. Every banner, every fruit, every cloth. All of it: the same flat, dull, lifeless grey.

The whole market looked like a photograph nobody had finished developing.