The Color of Tuesday Morning

Art Gallery Metropolis never slept — not entirely. Even at dawn, the city hummed. Neon signs above the galleries flickered in lavender and gold, and the broad streets were already busy with humans and bovines alike, carrying coffee cups and canvas rolls, nodding to one another as they passed.

Above it all stood Crayon Paintbrush Castle.

Four towers rose from its corners — two shaped like giant crayons, two like giant paintbrushes — and at the very top of the tallest one, Lena Artova leaned against the window ledge with a cold mug of tea, watching the city wake up.

Most people knew her as Crayon Paintbrush Woman. Blue hair pulled high, yellow mask resting on her forehead for now, red gloves tucked under her arm. She wasn't needed yet. Mornings were hers.

Her assistant, Marco, knocked twice and pushed the door open.

"You've got seventeen unread messages," he said, "and someone left a painting outside the front gate."

The Painting That Wasn't There Yesterday

Marco set the painting against the hallway wall and stepped back.

It was small — about the size of a breakfast tray — in a plain wooden frame. No signature. No label. Just a picture of a building Lena had never seen before.

Except it wasn't just a picture. The windows of the painted building flickered. Tiny people moved across its painted steps.

"It's doing that on its own," Marco said. He wasn't excited about it. He sounded like someone who'd just found a spider in his shoe.

Lena crouched down for a closer look. The painted city in the background — it was Art Gallery Metropolis. The streets, the neon signs, the gallery row.

But the building at the center? Where the castle should have been?

It was gone. The castle wasn't there. Something else stood in its place — tall, grey, and blank.

"Who brought this?" she asked.

"Nobody saw," Marco said. "The security drone footage just cuts out. Eleven minutes, gone."

Lena stood up slowly.

"Pull the last week of drone logs," she said.