Aimée bought a house in the mountains. It wasn't too big, more a cabin that a real house, but it was hers and it made her happy. No one had understood it when she had taken her life savings and spent them all on that house. It was isolated, far away from her friends and family. But it was peaceful, and that was what she needed.
One specially sunny spring day, she got outside with a bucket of dark blue paint. She filled her lungs with the mountain air and looked at the lake at the bottom of the valley. It was shining with the first rays of the sun, alive. Everything around her was green, dark, light, any tonality. Everything, but the sky and the lake. In no time the flowers would bloom, and thousands of different colors would appear. But right now there was blue and green, well and brown, but that was secondary. She took the brush and started painting the windows and the doors in that dark blue. She didn't really know why she was doing it, but she had to. When she was done she walked away and looked at it. The light brown of the house contrasted sharply with the fresh dark blue paint.
Her days passed slowly, but peacefully. She painted, she worked the wood, and most of all she disconnected from everything and everyone. Her house was open to everyone who passed by, she served tea to the occasional hikers, interchanged stories, laughed a bit, they were her only connection to the outside world.
She was laying on her hammock, reading a book, when he appeared. He was carrying a large backpack and asked her for directions to a refugee. She insisted on him staying for tea and they started talking. It turned out that most of his backpack as filled with notebooks. He was a writer. They talked for hours, and it ended up being too late for him to leave, so he stayed for the night. And he never left.
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