The fields lay bare now, stalks brittle, petals scattered like memories across the ground. Elara walked among them, the silence pressing against her chest.
She carried her paints, but no colors came. Only black lines, shapeless and hollow, spilled onto her canvas.
Her grandmother found her sitting in the field, clutching her brushes as though they were lifelines. She knelt beside her, whispering, "Child… sometimes love is meant to be a season, not a lifetime."