Whispers of the Unseen

The neon top was a beacon, a defiant splash of pigment against the muted canvas of Elara’s life. It clung to her skin like a second, bolder self, its electric green humming with a secret rhythm that only she could feel. Every step she took was a ripple through the placid pond of her village, and the ripples were not always welcomed. Whispers, like threads of smoke, began to curl around her, carrying on the breeze the hushed disapproval of those who clung to the familiar grey.

“Look at her,” a voice would murmur, low and sharp, as she passed the market stalls where dull brown loaves and grey roots were piled high. “So… garish.”

“It’s not natural,” another would add, their voice a thin, reedy sound, like a thread pulled too tight. “Such a loud color.”