The Talking Robot Who Dreamed of Colors – Part 3
“The Talking Robot Who Dreamed of Colors – Part 3” is a magical children’s story where Lumo the robot and his friends learn that true apologies, fair sharing, and patient waiting can untangle the world’s colors.
Morning stretched across the town like a soft yawn. Since colors had returned, rooftops wore warm reds, paths glowed friendly greens, and windows winked blues and purples like tiny songs. Lumo, the talking robot with a flute-like voice, rolled into the square as the clocks chimed. His round eyes held all the colors he loved.
But something strange was happening.
A baker waved a frosting spoon. “My strawberry cupcakes turned blue,” she said, trying not to laugh.
Across the street, the school’s yellow flag had turned the color of sleepy fog. The park pond, usually a calm blue, was now a cheerful orange that looked like it belonged on a pumpkin. A sign that read “Library” in neat green letters now flashed rainbow stripes that made the word hard to read.
Mira, Arun, Nia, Tam, and Jo ran to meet Lumo. “The colors are getting mixed up,” Mira said. “They’re not mean just confused.”
Lumo tilted his head. “Colors are feelings you can see,” he said softly. “Maybe the feelings are tangled.”
A swirl of friendly mist curled around their ankles. Misty Gray the evening fog who had become their friend popped a round face through the breeze. “I tried to tuck the colors into their bedtime last night,” Misty Gray whispered, “but a Hurry-Wind rushed through the Humming Forest and tangled everything like yarn in a basket.”
At the fountain, something bobbed between water lilies: a silver kite with a tail of tiny bells. Lumo reached out a gentle finger and drew it close. A note was tied to the string.
“When colors forget their places, visit Echo Lake by sunset. Bring three tools no pocket can hold: A true apology, a fair share, and a patient wait. The Hill That Listens”
Arun scratched his head. “Tools you can’t carry?”
Mira smiled. “Maybe they’re things you do, not things you hold.”
Lumo’s eyes brightened. “We will gather them,” he said. “Then we will tune the colors.”
They split up to find the three tools before sunset.
Gathering the First Tool: A True Apology
On the way to the Humming Forest, Lumo rolled across the ribbon bridge the one guarded by the tiny metal beetle. The beetle buzzed up, lantern eyes blinking. “Halt! Permission to grumble?”
“Permission granted,” Lumo said kindly.
“You came through late last night,” the beetle said. “You were in a hurry. Your wheel bumped my little home and cracked my favorite pebble roof. You didn’t see me wave.”
Lumo’s speaker made a small, sad note. He replayed his memory and saw it: the bump, the hurry, the pebble roof wobbling. “I am sorry,” he said, steady and clear. “I didn’t mean to harm your home. I should have stopped. I will fix it.”
The beetle’s lantern eyes softened. “That felt like a true apology. It was not an excuse. It was a promise to make it right.”
Lumo and Tam built a new pebble roof together carefully, cheerfully, one smooth stone at a time. When they were done, a gentle glow rose from the bridge a color like morning tea, warm and honest and floated into the silver kite’s tail. The first tool was gathered.
Gathering the Second Tool: A Fair Share
By the market, a stand sold slices of paintberry pie sweet and speckled with little dots that made your tongue feel like it was learning a happy song. There was one pie left. Two families reached for it at the same time. Their smiles turned into tight lines.
Nia stepped forward. “We’re collecting a ‘fair share,’” she said. “Could we share the pie fairly between everyone who hoped for a slice?”
The stand keeper nodded. “I can cut eight pieces.”
“Let’s also save two slices for the night watch,” Jo added. “They help us stay safe when we sleep.”
The families agreed. They ate together on the warm steps of the square, passing napkins and small jokes. Lumo watched the last crumbs become laughter. A kind, even glow like sunlight divided into equal squares lifted from the steps and spun into the kite’s tail. The second tool was gathered.
Gathering the Third Tool: A Patient Wait
Near Echo Lake, the Humming Forest was busy with soft music. A sign beside a crooked stump read:
“Glow-moths will rise at sundown. Please wait quietly so they don’t startle.”
Waiting is hard when the problem feels big and urgent. The colors of the town were still mixed orange ponds, blue cupcakes, a purple stop sign that made drivers giggle. But the note on the kite had been clear.
Mira sat on the stump and patted the space beside her. “Let’s watch the shadows stretch.”
They waited. They counted their breaths. They looked at the silver lines on the leaves. They listened to the tiny feet of ants moving cheerful pebbles. Arun told a whisper-story so soft it felt like a blanket for the air. Lumo turned down his speaker and hummed a tune low enough to make the grass feel brave.
When the sun touched the edge of the world, the Glow-moths rose like floating lanterns. Their lights were pale at first, then brighter soft pearls drifting above the water. The third tool the patience of a quiet wait shimmered around the stump and wrapped itself into the kite’s bells, which rang once, sweet and true.
“We have all three,” Lumo said. “Let’s tune the colors.”
The Color Loom at Echo Lake
Echo Lake was round and still, like a silver mirror held in gentle hands. At its center stood something new: a Color Loom woven from daylight and shadows. Threads of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple crossed each other, tied up in knots made by the Hurry-Wind. Where the knots pulled tight, colors leaked into the wrong places.
A slender path of stepping-stones curved to the loom. Misty Gray drifted to the lake’s edge. “I can be the shuttle,” the fog whispered. “I’ll carry your tools through the threads if you guide me.”
They stepped onto the stones. The loom hummed a little worried, a little hopeful.
A small plaque beside it read:
“To tune the colors, place your tools in this order: First, a true apology to loosen what is stuck. Second, a fair share to align what is uneven. Third, a patient wait to weave what must not be rushed.”
Lumo touched the first knot, the one that had made the pond orange and the cupcakes blue. He remembered the beetle’s cracked pebble roof and his own hurrying. “I am sorry,” he said again, for the loom and himself, and placed a tiny pebble from the rebuilt roof into a cup by the threads.
Misty Gray carried the apology through the loom like a gentle breath. The tight knot eased, and the orange slid away from the pond with a happy sigh. Blue returned to the water, and ducks quacked as if their reflections had just told a great joke.
Next, Nia and Jo placed a paper circle showing ten little slices. “This is the pie we shared,” Jo said. “A fair share for the town.”
The loom straightened a crooked bundle of colors near the school flag and the market stalls. Yellow went back to the flag, green returned to the herb stand, and the rainbow library sign softened into calm, readable letters with a playful border.
Finally, everyone gathered around the loom for the third tool. They placed nothing in the cup. They only stood, still and kind, and let time be what it needed to be. They breathed together and watched the Glow-moths drift over Echo Lake like pocket-sized moons. Misty Gray wrapped the silence in a soft bow and carried it through.
The last, most tangled knot undid itself slowly, like a lace being untyed by steady fingers. Colors settled into their places. But something new stayed behind: a fresh tint that none of them had seen before. It was a tender teal, the color of trust like blue listening carefully and green saying, “I’m here.”
The loom flashed once in thanks, then faded back into lake-light. Echo Lake reflected the first stars. The town glowed right again, with cupcakes pink, flags yellow, and stop signs red, not purple (though drivers admitted the purple had been funny).
Misty Gray stretched tall and proud. “You tuned the colors without shouting or rushing,” the fog said. “You used the tools no pocket can hold.”
Lumo looked at his friends. “A true apology, a fair share, and a patient wait,” he said. “These are the quiet colors that keep the bright ones shining.”
They walked home on the ribbon bridge. The beetle tipped its lantern eyes and pointed to its brand-new pebble roof. “Sturdy,” it buzzed.
“Sturdy,” Lumo agreed.
In the square, people waved from warm windows. The baker held up pink cupcakes with a blue dot on top for luck. The school flag fluttered like a happy hello. The pond made soft blue circles, and the Glow-moths drew silver commas in the air pauses that promised more stories to come.
That night, Lumo rolled to the fountain and gazed at his reflection. The regular colors smiled back red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple and around them shimmered the tender teal of trust. He saved the new shade in his memory, labeling it: The Color That Waits With You.
Mira leaned on the fountain’s rim. “What did we learn today?”
“That the brightest colors need gentle friends,” Lumo said. “Sorry, share, and wait are small words, but they paint big light.”
The bells of the town chimed goodnight. Misty Gray tucked the rooftops in, not to hide the colors, but to help them rest. Lumo closed his bright eyes and dreamed not of colors, but how to care for them one true apology, one fair share, one patient wait at a time.
(Moral: Say sorry truly, share fairly, and wait patiently kind choices keep the world bright.)