Burnt umber or, sometimes, deep indigo. To me, they carry the weight of something lived-in. Burnt umber is the warmth of clay pulled from the earth, shaped by hands, fired until it becomes something permanent... It's the shade of wooden beams in old houses, smoothed by years of passing palms. Of soil that has just been turned after the rain, dark and generous, holding more than it shows. It's a color that feels honest, without any need to perform. And deep indigo… That's ink that has seeped so deep into paper that the two can't be separated anymore. It's the dye that lingers in the folds of cloth after countless washes, like a stubborn memory. It's the night sky just before full darkness falls, the moment when the world is holding its breath. There's a depth to it, to which you approach slowly the way you walk into cold water. I've always liked colors that feel like they've been here longer than I have. Colors that carry patience. They don't demand your gaze; they wait for it. They remind me of places where I've felt small in the best way: libraries that smell faintly of dust and sun, kitchens where pots bear the scars of decades, quiet streets at dusk when the air feels thick with stories you'll never know. Some colors are about pleasure, but burnt umber and deep indigo are about presence. They stay when others fade. They hold the history of everything they've touched, and if you listen long enough, maybe they'll tell you a little of it.