The carriage was ready by the time she reached the front steps.
The sun had begun to fall, the sky turning gold through the drifting petals.
Aria paused at the gates and looked back once more.
The mansion's windows glowed faintly in the light. The garden shimmered with flowers.
She hadn't noticed before — how beautiful it was in spring.
When she left this place, she had only seen gray, only felt the weight of loss.
Now, the air was full of color.
For a moment, she wondered if it had always been this way — and if she had simply been too blinded by grief to see it.
Her hands rested lightly on the carriage door.
Her eyes lingered on the building that had once been her entire world.
The driver looked back. "My lady?"
Aria shook her head. "N-Nothing. You can go."
The wheels creaked softly as the carriage began to move.
The road wound down the hill, lined with trees already heavy with blossoms.
Through the window, Aria watched as petals drifted past — white, pink, gold in the fading light.
She didn't realize she was smiling until her reflection caught her eye. It was small, faint — but real.
Her thoughts wandered back to the baron's words, to his quiet gratitude, to Sophia's voice still echoing through the halls.
The way she had said, once, while staring at a painting,
"It's strange… that something still can feel alive."
Back then, Aria hadn't understood.
Now she did.
The world wasn't silent — it just spoke in colors, in shapes, in moments that passed too quickly to name.
She thought of the river at the church, of her sketches, of Lucia's steady voice.
Maybe she hadn't left that silence behind after all.
Maybe she had only carried it forward — changed, softer, easier to bear.
As the carriage rolled farther from the mansion, the sky deepened to red and yellow.
The flowers along the road glowed under the last light of day.
Aria leaned her head against the window, eyes half-closed.
The memory of Sophia came faintly again — not sharp, not painful. Just there, like a song half-remembered.
The wind outside carried the scent of lilacs.
By the time she reached the crossroads, the sun had already fallen behind the trees.
The carriage slowed, the horses breathing softly.
Ahead lay the road to the church.
The air felt different here. Lighter, open.
She thought of the letter folded carefully in her bag — the baron's handwriting, the words that had brought her back.
The road waited before her — quiet, endless, touched by the faint color of dawn.
Far from the mansion, Aria's carriage reached the bridge that crossed the wide river.
The moon hung low, the surface below glittering faintly.
She rested her head against the glass and looked out at the water.
It moved slow and calm — the same river that passed behind the church, the same one that carried every petal, every fragment of light.
She thought of the paintings she left unfinished.
Of color she hadn't yet found names for.
"Maybe I'll paint this, the way it feels tonight."
The wind carried her voice away.
The road continued as the carriage rolled into the quiet stretch of night.
***
The morning light crept through the window, soft and pale.
It was the first time in months Aria woke without the sound of the river in her ears.
For a moment, she didn't remember where she was.
The faint smell of smoke and wet grass told her soon enough — she was back at the church.
She sat up slowly, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. Her bag was on the chair beside the bed, the letter from the baron folded neatly inside.
The candle had burned out during the night, leaving only a pool of wax.
Outside, she could hear children and Lucia's voice calling after them.
Life had already started again.
When Aria stepped outside, the air smelled of early spring.
Lucia stood near the garden, pointing at a group of children carrying bundles of ribbon and flowers.
"…Good morning."
"Morning? It's nearly noon."
Aria blinked.
"I didn't sleep much."
Lucia smiled faintly. "We're preparing for the festival."
Aria tilted her head. "Festival?"
"The spring one. You didn't forget, did you?"
Aria thought for a moment, then shook her head. "…."
Lucia handed her a small basket filled with ribbons.
"Tie these to the fence. Make it look cheerful. Spring's here, even if you're not ready for it."
Aria took the basket.
The courtyard was full of motion.
Children carried armfuls of flowers, weaving them into garlands.
Some hung ribbons on the trees, laughing when the wind tangled them up.
Aria worked quietly, tying the ends of the ribbons to the fence posts. The colors moved gently in the breeze — green,yellow, white.
One of the children stopped beside her, holding a bundle of daisies.
"Are you going to the festival later?"
"I don't know yet."
"You should. There'll be sweets and music."
"That sounds noisy."
"It's supposed to be," the girl said proudly, then ran off before Aria could answer.
Aria looked toward the children again.
By noon, the town began to stir.
Stalls lined the main road beyond the church.
The smell of bread, flowers, and roasted nuts drifted through the air.
Lucia closed the chapel for the afternoon.
"Even the saints can wait for spring"
Aria followed her to the edge of the square.
Everywhere she looked, there was color — banners fluttering, laughter echoing, sunlight flashing off glass bottles of dye and perfume.
It was strange.
The world had always been this bright, but it felt new to her now — like someone had quietly painted over winter in her absence.
Lucia stopped near a flower stall.
"Pick one."
"…For what?"
"For your hair."
"I don't need one."
"You never do. That's why you should."
Aria sighed but picked a small lilac blossom from the basket.
Lucia smiled.
"There. You look almost human again."
"…Thank you?"
They spent the afternoon walking the square.
Aria didn't join the games or the dancing, but she watched.
Children ran barefoot through the grass, merchants shouted their prices, and music rose from somewhere near the fountain.
Lucia spoke to people she knew, old neighbors and vendors.
Aria stayed a step behind, quiet, her eyes following the colors — bright scarves, ribbons fluttering in the wind, petals falling from bouquets.
At one stall, an artist was painting on small wooden boards.
He worked quickly, his hands sure, his eyes calm.
Aria stopped, watching how the brush moved — how simple strokes could bring something to life.
Lucia returned to question her
"Just looking," Aria said softly.
That evening, when the festival lights began to glow, Aria sat on the church steps watching the sky turn orange.
Children chased fireflies through the courtyard, their laughter rising like a song.
Lucia came out with two cups of tea and handed her one.
The wind carried the faint sound of music from the town square.
It mixed with the sound of the river and the rustle of the trees, soft and unhurried.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Aria traced the edge of her cup with her finger.
"Do you think people can start over?"
Lucia looked at her. "I think they already do. Every morning."
Aria's lips curved slightly. "…Then maybe tomorrow will be mine."
Lucia nodded, quiet and sure.