short fiction · 2026-10-27

The Color of Seven

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

Seven has always been the smell of rain on hot asphalt — petrichor sharp and sweet, rising in the seconds after the first drop hits. Three is the texture of brushed wool, soft and slightly catching on dry fingertips. Monday tastes like cold oatmeal; Thursday is the sound of a cello's lowest string, felt in the ribs. She learned early not to say it aloud. The neurologist called it cross-wiring. Her grandmother called it a gift and taught her to read the week by scent before she could read a calendar. Now, standing in the produce aisle, she hesitates between two avocados. One hums a quiet F-sharp, ripe and buttery. The other is silent, hard as a Tuesday. She chooses the one that sings.