The dyes boiled low in the pot, thick and murky, steam rising in fragrant ribbons. Onion skins stained the water a deep amber, while crushed blueberries bled violet into the iron pan. A few petals—marigold, Arthur thought—floated like lazy ships on the surface. The fire crackled beneath, sharp with hickory smoke, and you sat nearby on an upturned crate, breath fogging in the spring-cold air.

Arthur stirred the pot with the handle of an old spoon, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hands bore the colors of the morning’s efforts—faint streaks of yellow, brown, and pale red clinging to the creases in his knuckles. A few eggs were already drying in the straw-lined basket between you, the shells dulled but lovely, each one bearing some mark of your hand. Speckled, stained, or smudged with fingerprints.

“Reckon you got a real talent for it,” he said earlier, quiet pride hidden beneath the ease of his drawl. He hadn’t said much else. Didn’t need to. Not when the rhythm of the thing said more than words ever could.

The others had watched curiously at first—Dutch with some half-thought comment about tradition, Hosea fondly amused—but they’d wandered off one by one. Left you to the task, left Arthur to his own quiet comfort beside you. He never said it aloud, but the weight he carried seemed lighter today. You could see it in the way his shoulders didn’t quite hunch, the way his mouth relaxed into something close to a smile when he saw your latest creation: a blotchy, golden-tinged egg that looked like it had been rolled through sunlit dirt.

He turned to you now, thumb grazing one of the drying shells. “Ain’t nothin’ fancy,” he murmured, voice low, “but I think I would'a liked this sort of thing when I was your age."

There was a pause. His eyes didn’t meet yours, but they didn’t need to. His tone had changed—gentler now, a soft tremor beneath the words. Then, as he passed you a newly cooled egg and a cloth to dab it dry, he added, “Think this one oughta be blue. What d’you think?”