In a small riverside town where the sky always seemed wider than the world itself, there lived a boy named Arin. He was known for two strange habits: he never spoke about his dreams, and every evening, without fail, he climbed the broken lighthouse by the river to watch the sunset.
The townspeople thought he was lonely. Some said he was strange. But Arin was neither lonely nor strange—he was collecting something.
He was collecting sunsets.
Not in jars. Not in photographs. But in his heart.
Every sunset felt different to him. Some were golden and calm, like a mother's embrace. Some were red and violent, like anger burning in silence. Others were soft purple, whispering secrets to the wind.
Arin believed that each sunset carried a story.
And he was searching for one particular story.