THE SUNFLOWER PATH

In a quaint corner of Provence, where the sun kissed the earth with golden warmth, there lay a path winding through a sea of sunflowers. This path was known only to a few, whispered about in the village market by old women who spoke of ghosts and wishes carried on the wind. 

Every year, on the eve of midsummer, Lucien returned to the house atop the hill, its red-tiled roof peeking above the fields like a warm smile. The house had belonged to his grandparents, and their grandparents before them—a place where laughter had once floated through open windows and the scent of lavender lingered in every room. 

As Lucien walked, his fingers trailed the sunflower heads, their petals soft and warm under his touch. The sun hung low, painting the sky in swirls of blue and white, and the mountains in the distance seemed to hum with ancient secrets. It was on this path that he had last seen Amélie, her hair crowned with wildflowers, her eyes full of promises. She had danced barefoot in the sunflowers, her laughter rising like a song to meet the sky. That was a lifetime ago—before war, before cities and gray buildings had swallowed him whole. 

He paused at the cypress tree where they had carved their initials, time and weather now softening the edges of their youth. The breeze stirred, carrying the scent of sun and pine, and for a moment, Lucien could almost hear her voice, light and teasing, as if she were just ahead, waiting.