Time moved forward, though Elara wished it wouldn't. Each morning the sunflowers seemed a little heavier with age, their golden heads bowing slightly lower toward the earth.
Elara tried to ignore it. She filled her days with Kai, clinging to the present as though it could outlast everything. They sang together by the cottage, painted by the riverside, and told each other stories under star-laden skies.
Yet at night, when Kai thought she slept, Elara would hear him awake, strumming soft, unfinished songs. Melodies that sounded like longing, like roads stretching far away.
Her grandmother noticed too. One afternoon, while kneading dough, she spoke without looking up.
"Elara, joy is sweet, but remember—it is never meant to be caged."
Elara frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Some people are like rivers. You can drink from them, you can sit beside them, but you cannot hold them still."
Elara bristled, defensive. "Kai's not like that. He promised me."
Her grandmother only sighed, pressing her hands into the dough. "Even rivers make promises, child. But they still flow away."
That night, Elara held Kai's hand tighter than usual, as though afraid that if she let go, he might slip away in the dark.
Kai kissed her forehead, whispering, "I'm here. Don't be afraid."
But Elara couldn't help it. In her heart, a quiet unease had begun to grow—like the first shadow of a cloud on a bright summer's day.