The first days without Kai were the hardest. Elara painted constantly, as if by filling her canvases with color she could chase away the emptiness in her chest.
Every morning, she checked the fields. The sunflowers were still standing, still golden. She whispered to them as if they could hear: "He'll come back. Before you fade, he'll come back."
The townsfolk noticed her waiting. Some smiled kindly, others pitied her in silence. Children still ran through the fields, but their laughter only made the quiet around her seem sharper.
Her grandmother tried to comfort her. "Letters may take time," she said, though no letter had yet arrived.
At night, Elara dreamed of Kai—his music, his laughter, the way he looked at her as though she were the only thing that mattered. She woke each morning with her heart aching, but hope carried her forward.
He promised, she reminded herself. He'll return.