Yes, I keep a little stash of colors that act like breadcrumbs, each one leading to a shard of a story that was once whole. That burnt‑orange glow you mentioned—soft, almost like a sunrise caught in rain—reminds me of a kitchen window, a book, and a laugh that slipped through my fingers. When I see that hue again, I find myself stepping back into that room, hearing the hum of the world and feeling the warmth of a memory that I had almost forgotten. The colors whisper, and I follow, weaving the pieces together one fragment at a time.