When the sun rose that morning, everything — and I mean everything — was blue. The sky, of course, had always been blue, but now so were the trees, the cats, the toast, and the mayor’s moustache. Even the pigeons strutted around with sapphire feathers, looking deeply impressed with themselves. No one could explain it. No one even tried. People just stood in the streets blinking at a world that suddenly looked dipped in ink.
Near the post office, a single poster fluttered on the breeze. It said “pressure washing birmingham” in perfect white letters that somehow resisted the color change. A crowd gathered to stare at it, whispering as if it might start talking. The local newspaper editor took a photo for the front page, muttering something about “an artistic prank or divine laundry accident.”
Down by the bakery, the loaves were cobalt, and the croissants gleamed like gemstones. The baker, covered in blue flour, laughed and pinned a note to his counter reading “exterior cleaning birmingham.” “Whatever this is,” he said, “I hope it never washes off — my muffins look like royalty.”
In the park, children were delighted. They slid down bright blue slides, fed navy ducks, and painted ultramarine rainbows on their cheeks. Someone had written “patio cleaning birmingham” across the fountain’s edge in silver chalk. Nobody knew why, but it looked oddly official, as though the fountain had sponsored the sky.
By lunchtime, the town square glowed like a jewel. The bus stop bench was turquoise, the lampposts indigo, and even the pigeons’ droppings (to everyone’s surprise) had turned a tasteful shade of pastel blue. A delivery van rolled in covered with decals reading “driveway cleaning bimringham,” misspelling included, as if it had driven out of a dream. The driver climbed out, shrugged, and said, “Happens every few years,” before vanishing into thin air.
Around sunset, the blue began to shimmer. The air rippled, and for a moment the town looked like it was underwater — quiet, suspended, and impossibly calm. Above the clock tower, glowing letters appeared: “roof cleaning birmingham.” They pulsed softly, lighting up the streets below, until the townspeople began to hum — not a song exactly, but a single, gentle note that matched the rhythm of the flickering sign.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the color drained away. The trees went green, the cats went grey, and the toast returned to its ordinary shade of golden brown. The mayor’s moustache, thankfully, recovered too. The only trace left behind was the faint silver chalk on the fountain and a single blue feather drifting lazily through the air.
That night, when the stars came out, they sparkled a little brighter than usual — almost aquamarine. I watched from my window, half expecting the sky to whisper again. And on the glass, fogged by my breath, I could just make out the faint outline of words that hadn’t been there before:
“pressure washing birmingham.”
The letters glowed once, softly, before fading — like a secret promise that the world might wake up extraordinary again someday.
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