The flower crown and childhood dreams.

On a sweet spring day, the breezes passed gently through the trees, as if playing with their leaves and caressing the cheeks of a little girl walking along a narrow forest path surrounded by grass and wildflowers.

That girl was Ronwa, with long silver hair that shimmered under the sunlight like moonlight threads. She walked lightly, her small backpack bouncing a little with each step.

She sighed and muttered, looking ahead without addressing anyone but herself:

"I don’t understand why they insist I said what I didn’t... I just said drawing was boring, and the teacher got angry and said I don’t appreciate art. But... drawing a flower five times isn’t art, is it?"

She pulled a strand of hair from her face with childish annoyance and continued speaking to herself:

"And Tina cried because I said her sheep were ugly. But I didn’t lie! Her sheep were dirty, and I just told the truth."

She paused for a moment at a small stone and jumped over it cheerfully, then laughed softly:

"The villagers are really weird... It’s like they don’t like hearing the truth."

She waved at a white butterfly fluttering beside her and continued on her way home, where a glass of cold juice and maybe a piece of candy awaited her... or at least, a bowl of soup she didn’t like.

Ronwa skipped over tiny pebbles and danced between the flowers, as if dancing with the butterflies, laughing quietly to herself, caring for nothing but the gentle breeze playing with her silver hair.

But suddenly, just as her small foot nearly tripped over a dry branch in her path, she felt as if an invisible hand gently pulled her back... She didn’t fall, just took one surprised step backward.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she turned to look behind her.

No one.

The path was quiet, the butterflies still fluttering, and the breeze still soft.

She tilted her head and said with a small smile:

"Strange... maybe it was the wind."

As if it didn’t matter much, she continued her way, humming a childish tune she’d made up moments ago and counting the pebbles beneath her feet without knowing why... just because she liked counting.

Finally, she spotted the roof of her little house among the trees and hurried toward the wooden door left slightly ajar, just as her mother always did when she was inside.

She entered quietly, taking off her little shoes at the threshold, then called out cheerfully:

"Mama, I’m home!"

A soft voice responded from the kitchen:

"Welcome back, sweetie. How was your day?"

Ronwa stepped inside and saw her mother bending over the table, gently wiping it down. Her hair was hastily tied back, her features tired but warm. She smiled and opened her arms to embrace her daughter.

Ronwa rushed toward her, but...

A harsh, gruff voice cut through the warmth:

"Enough pampering. Don’t you have more important things to do?"

Ronwa froze in place, her eyes turning toward the side room’s door, where the old woman stood—her features stern, her white hair covered with a dark scarf. Her gaze was sharp like knives, and her voice unlike the grandmothers in fairytales.

The mother lowered her head quickly and stepped away from the table, replying in a low voice:

"Yes... I’ll go tidy the room now."

Ronwa looked at her mother, then at the old woman, her eyes wide with fear, not understanding the reason for such coldness. But she said nothing. She just picked up her bag and went to her small room in silence... as if the beautiful moment had suddenly been stolen from her.

She quietly placed her bag on her small bed and looked out the window where the sun was still shining. A faint smile returned to her childish face.

"I won’t let her ruin my day..." she whispered to herself, then ran outside, leaving behind the silence and chill of the room.

In the small garden near the house, her close friend Lilia was waiting for her—a girl about the same age, with brown hair tied into two braids and permanently rosy cheeks.

Lilia waved happily:

"Rooonwaa! You’re finally out! Come, I made a flower crown!"

Ronwa ran to her with a small laugh and sat beside her under the old cherry tree, holding the crown in her hands in awe:

"Wow! This is beautiful! Can I have it?"

Lilia nodded eagerly: "Of course, I made it for you."

Ronwa placed the crown on her head and said, swaying as if she were a princess:

"Now I am Princess Ronwa... Ruler of the fields, frogs, and skies!"

They sat under the cherry tree’s shade, the wind playing with their hair, and flowers scattered around them as if the earth was smiling at their conversation.

Lilia stretched her legs forward and held a small flower, then said:

"You know, yesterday I saw a mouse in the kitchen! I screamed, and Dad thought there was a thief!"

Ronwa giggled softly and said:

"Mama says mice love sweets... maybe it came to steal cookies."

Lilia shook her head with childish seriousness:

"No, it came to steal cheese! I’m sure!"

Then she lowered her voice and added secretly:

"Tina said cousin Hiro likes you."

Ronwa’s eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up in surprise:

"Whaaaaat?! I don’t want anyone to like me! That’s annoying!"

Lilia burst out laughing, then said:

"But you’re so cute! If I were a boy, I’d fall for you myself!"

Ronwa’s cheeks turned red as she gently pushed Lilia:

"Stop it, that’s silly!"

A brief silence passed, then Ronwa said as she stared at the sky:

"Lilia... do you think ghosts are real?"

Lilia looked at her in surprise, then said:

"Ghosts? Like in stories?"

Ronwa nodded slowly, her eyes returning to the sky, and whispered:

"Sometimes... I feel like someone is watching me."

The sun quietly set, casting soft shadows over the village and painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Calm enveloped the place as Ronwa’s footsteps traced the road home.

When she entered, the first thing that caught her attention was her harsh grandmother’s voice. She sat in her wooden chair near the fireplace, her sharp eyes tracking every movement in the house. On the table sat the soup Ronwa hated, waiting for her to eat it.

"Eat your dinner, Ronwa. Don’t waste time," said the grandmother in her dry voice, as if issuing a command without room for discussion.

Ronwa slowly picked up the spoon and looked at the soup with eyes full of loathing, but she had to eat. She closed her eyes for a moment and began taking one spoonful after another, each one feeling like a heavy burden.

When she finished, she said dully:

"Mama, can you tell me a story from my favorite book?"

She raised her eyes toward her mother cautiously, hoping the story might bring her some joy again.

Her mother nodded with a small smile:

"Of course, dear. Have you picked today’s story?"

But before she could open the book, the grandmother’s stern voice pierced the moment quietly, yet firmly:

"Enough nonsense! You’re old enough to stop believing in fairy tales."

Then she looked at Ronwa with a piercing stare and said:

"There’s no time for stories. Learn to be more serious."

Ronwa felt her grandmother’s words like whips on her heart. She sighed inwardly, then quietly left, her steps heavy as she dragged her feet. She returned to her room, slammed the door shut behind her, and threw herself onto her bed.

"Grandma... why is she always like this?!" she whispered angrily, venting all the words she didn’t dare say out loud.

In her small room, Ronwa sat on her bed, wrapping herself in an old, faded blanket. Her favorite book was in her hands, its cover a little torn from overuse, but it still held the world she escaped to when she felt sad.

She placed her small lantern beside her, its soft light casting gentle shadows on the walls. The candle inside flickered weakly, as if trying to comfort her on a night that felt longer than usual.

Ronwa placed her fingers on the edges of the book’s pages, but her eyes couldn’t focus on the words. A soft sadness lingered in her heart, from not hearing a story today. She knew her mother was busy, but she couldn’t stop herself from feeling disappointed. She wasn’t small enough anymore to be told stories, as her grandmother always said.

She closed her eyes for a moment and whispered softly, her voice almost lost in the wind’s whispers from her window:

"Why doesn’t anyone understand... I just want to hear a story."

Then she smiled faintly, as if trying to brush away the thoughts: "Maybe tomorrow... I’ll ask her again."

But at that very moment...the book in her hands felt like the only world she could escape to, even if its pages offered nothing but solitude in that quiet room.