On a quiet farm, two children were drenched in dirt, streaked and tarnished with mud from head to toe. The girl, though smeared with the earth, smiled without a care, entirely unaware that the grime clinging to her skin could be seen as anything but a part of the day.
Having her clothes being red as a robe like cloths, a white shirt with a skirt...
She clambered toward the boy, who was perched along the trunk of a tree, crawling carefully down its rough bark. His hands clutched the treetop, smirking as he drew a sword, pressing its blade against a hollow in the tree's undergrowth.
The girl's eyes were blank, yet her face carried a face so vivid that it seemed capable of speaking a thousand unspoken words... With only making a simple expressions.
"Look what I found!" he exclaimed.
She bent forward, hands on her knees, watching him struggle to pull the sword free from its sheath. Her hair fell like a dark curtain to the ground, while the boy's hair, short and sharp as thorns, bristled in the sunlight.
With a grunt, he tugged the sword upward. It emerged from its sheath with a metallic scrape, its rusted surface catching the light.
"Let me see it…" she murmured, taking the blade in her hands, her fingers pressing against its weight. Her eyes, wide and curious, reflected the rough, metallic texture of the weapon.
He leaned closer, glancing down at his own clothes, a polo and a hoodie smudged and tarnished with the day's work.
Their parents loved them dearly. His father was a farmer, tending vast, lush fields of wheat, while her father was a tailor, stitching dresses and garments for the settlement.
But then—his gaze caught something chilling. A skull, nestled in the hollow of the tree, attached to the fragile remains of a skeleton, its hands clasped together, pressed against its chest.
"Ahh!" he shouted, stumbling backward as the girl dropped the sword, the blade grazing her palms in the fall.
The moment passed, leaving worry lingering in the air. She held her hands to her wounds, tears slipping down her dirt-streaked face, and he guided her gently toward the river and the trees. Their footsteps sank into the soil, rustling leaves beneath them, the forest silent but for their careful movements. He worried, but silently—trusting that everything would be alright.
They were always adventuring with friends. Scrapes and cuts were part of it, harmless reminders of afternoons spent shaping stones and molding herbs that smelled faintly of cloves.
"Everything will be fine," he said, smiling gently. She looked at him, expression softening, returning to her usual calm. "I promise it'll heal as if new."
A white dove perched nearby, watching them with quiet curiosity.
"Well… let's see," she whispered to herself, a gentle smile curving her lips. Her bags were heavy with discoveries: an inverted torch, a broken clock, screws, wooden trinkets. The boy carried plates and some other beautifull patterns of stones, and together they had gathered countless small treasures from the forest.
In the pastures... To the farm...
In the wheat beyond, a yellow-haired boy laughed, while a chubby girl with freckles peered at them through the tall stalks. The boy held flowers and berries, carefully plucked.
"Took you long enough!" he scoffed, teasing as the girl carried baskets full of bread and buns.
Time passed lazily. Lambs grazed in the pasture, the wind brushing across the grass, carrying the scent of flowers and earth. They wove flowers into crowns, laughing quietly, weaving the day into something fragile and perfect.
As the sun sank toward the horizon, the girl rested against a lamb, serene and tired. The yellow-haired boy wandered away from a cluster of goats being afraid of them, while the freckled girl snatched one mischievously, sending the boy into embarrassed fluster.
They ate berries and honeyed blooms, crowning themselves with flowers, the world narrowing down to sunlight, wind, and small, perfect moments.
I made a ring of flowers and pressed it into her hand. "Here."
She smiled at it, a smile so pure and radiant it seemed to make the world itself pause. I had made my own ring, a crown of flowers, and placed it on my finger, mirroring hers.
The other children shouted and teased, twinkling with laughter and playful mischief.
…Robert: "…"
That was fun... It was memory etched into the folds of time. It happened decades ago. I don't remember their faces fully, nor their names…
Yet… somehow, the feeling remains.