The village woke beneath a generous sun, the kind that made even old walls glow. Colorful cloth fluttered between houses, and laughter drifted freely through the narrow paths like music that didn't need an instrument.
Long wooden tables filled the square, bending under the weight of celebration. Bowls of steaming curry. Plates stacked with sweets glazed in honey. Fresh bread, roasted meat, fruit soaked in syrup, cups brimming with drinks that caught the light when they were lifted. The air smelled rich and alive, heavy with spice and warmth.
Children ran barefoot across the dust, chasing each other in wild circles, their laughter sharp and endless. Elders sat together, smiling as if time itself had slowed just for them. Couples danced without shame, hands loose, hearts lighter than usual. Someone clapped to set a rhythm. Someone else sang off-key, and no one cared.
It was the kind of day people remembered when life grew hard.
The kind they pointed to and said, This is what happiness looks like.
Every face held a smile.
Every voice carried joy.
Every moment felt complete.
And beneath the open sky, surrounded by love and noise and sunlight, it seemed impossible that anything could ever go wrong.
But