In a quiet riverside town, there lived a girl named Elara who collected sunsets.
Not photographs. Not paintings.
She collected the feelings.
Every evening, she would climb the old wooden bridge and watch the sky change colors—gold melting into orange, orange fading into violet. While others hurried home, Elara stood still, memorizing the way the light touched the water, the way the wind softened at dusk.
She carried a small glass jar in her bag. When the sun dipped below the horizon, she would close her eyes, whisper one word that matched her mood—hope, forgive, begin—and gently blow into the jar before sealing it tight.
To anyone watching, it looked like childish imagination.
But inside her room, the jars glowed.
Softly. Quietly. Like captured pieces of evening sky.
Elara began collecting sunsets after her mother passed away. The days had felt too heavy, too bright, too real. But sunsets were different. They reminded her that endings could be beautiful. That even the loudest day softened into something gentle.
One winter evening, a storm swallowed the sky. No colors. No golden light. Just grey.
Elara stood on the bridge anyway.
"I guess some days," she whispered, "there's nothing to collect."
An old fisherman beside her shook his head. "There's always something."
She looked again. Beneath the thick clouds, a thin silver line glowed where the sun hid behind the horizon.
Not bright. Not dramatic.
But stubborn.
Elara smiled. She opened her jar and whispered, still here.
That night, the jar shone brighter than all the others.
Years later, when Elara grew older and left the town, she didn't take the jars with her. She left them on the windowsill of her childhood room.
Because she had learned something important—
You don't really collect sunsets.
You collect reminders that light always returns.
And sometimes, the smallest glow is the one that saves you.