Mirasol grew quieter as summer waned. Children returned to school, evenings grew shorter, and the bakery smelled more of spice than fresh bread.
Elara still painted, but her colors shifted. Less gold, more gray. Less summer skies, more twilight shadows. Her grandmother watched her silently, never asking but always knowing.
Each day she returned to the fields, waiting. The silence of the empty road grew heavier than words.