Mirasol was not a town people traveled to—it was a town people stumbled upon. Nestled between hills and a winding river, it was small, quiet, and full of golden sunflowers that turned with the sun like worshippers in prayer. Every morning, the air smelled faintly of bread from the lone bakery and of wild grass carried by the wind.
For Elara, this place was both a cage and a sanctuary. She was twenty-two, with paint always staining her hands, and she lived with her grandmother in a cottage at the edge of the sunflower fields. Life was simple—wake up, paint, help her grandmother in the garden, watch the sunsets, sleep.
But despite the quiet, Elara felt restless. She painted skies that stretched further than the horizon she knew, and she dreamed of places beyond Mirasol. Yet every time she tried to imagine leaving, her grandmother's frail voice anchored her:
"Elara, the world is wide, but not every wide thing holds you the way home does."
So she stayed.
One afternoon, with her brushes dipped in orange and gold, Elara sat on the balcony overlooking the sunflowers. A sound broke the silence—a melody, soft and unsteady, carried by the wind. Curious, she left her canvas, stepping down the stone path. There, leaning under a tree at the field's edge, was a young man with a guitar.
His hair was dark and windswept, his clothes dusty from travel, and his voice carried something raw, like stories wrapped in music. He looked up and caught her watching.
"Sorry," he said, lowering the guitar with an apologetic smile. "Didn't mean to bother you."
"You're not bothering me," Elara replied, her curiosity stronger than her shyness. "Nobody plays music here. Where did you come from?"
He chuckled. "Everywhere. Or maybe nowhere. I just walk until my feet get tired."
That was the day Elara met Kai.