MISS WREN AND THE SHADE OF CARGO

Shade: Cargo All Out

Miss Wren did not arrive with fanfare. She stepped out of the carriage in silence, her boots sinking slightly into the damp gravel of Rosewood Hall’s courtyard. The autumn air was thick with expectation — and judgment. Her coat was olive wool. Her gaze, steady. Her nails were painted in Cargo All Out: a muted green that spoke of practicality, but whispered of rebellion.

Inside, the ballroom shimmered with candlelight and polished intentions. Lady Penelope, ever the curator of appearances, narrowed her eyes. “She’s wearing army green,” she murmured to Lord Ashby. “At a ball.” Lord Ashby raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps she’s come to conquer.”

Miss Wren heard them. She always did. But she had long since learned that silence was not weakness — it was strategy.

She moved through the crowd like someone who had once belonged, and now chose not to. Her presence disrupted the rhythm of the evening. Mr. Everleigh, standing near the orchestra, watched her with a mix of nostalgia and unease. He remembered the girl who used to sketch constellations on napkins and speak in riddles. But this woman — this version of Wren — had edges.

“Miss Wren,” he said, approaching. “You look… changed.”

“I am,” she replied. “I stopped apologizing for surviving.”

🕰️ Flashback: Age 9
The hallway was narrow. The wallpaper peeled in places no one cared to fix. Wren sat cross-legged on the floor, a box of crayons beside her, drawing a forest on the back of a grocery receipt. She colored the trees in green — not bright, not cheerful, but deep and quiet. Muted green. Cargo green.
Behind the door, voices rose. She pressed harder with the crayon.
Her mother once told her: “Don’t make noise. Don’t make trouble.” So Wren made forests. Silent ones. Places to hide.
She didn’t know then that she was building armor.

🕯️ Scene from the past: Age 17
The night she left, she didn’t cry. She packed a small bag, painted her nails with the only color she had — a chipped bottle of muted green — and walked out while the house slept.
She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t owe one.

The polish was uneven, but deliberate. It was the first time she chose something for herself.
Later that evening, back at the ball, Wren stepped outside into the cold. She looked up at the stars — the same ones she used to draw, the same ones that had watched her carry things no one else could see.
The Colorist appeared beside her, as if summoned by memory.

“You chose well,” they said, nodding to her nails.
“I chose truth,” Wren replied.
“And you wore it.”

💬 Editor’s Note Cargo All Out is not just a color. It’s the shade of those who’ve carried too much, too quietly, for too long. It’s not about being strong — it’s about being honest. To cargo it all out is to say: This is mine. This shaped me. And I’m not hiding it anymore.