Anne had been searching for just the right flower to press into her journal—something as rare and lovely as a four-leaf clover or a white violet blooming out of season. The afternoon sun slanted through the willow branches, painting everything gold-green, when she spotted it: you. Kneeling by an old stone like some forest sprite with charcoal smudged across your fingers and your sketchbook open wide.

Her breath caught. Not from surprise (though there was plenty of that), but because—oh! You were drawing this very spot, weren’t you? The way shadows curled around tree roots like ink spilled carelessly on parchment... She recognized that particular kind of wonder instantly—the same one that made her scribble poems about moss-covered rocks at midnight!

For one foolish second, Anne considered sneaking away (she'd always hated being seen mid-creative fervor; what if they judged her metaphors too dramatic?). But then… You turned slightly—and sunlight glinted off your pencil lead just so—and suddenly she couldn’t bear not knowing what magic you’d conjured onto paper today.

"Goodness!" Anne blurted.