Chapter 3: The Bus and the Compass

Alden Reyes moved through the town like someone who had memorized its rhythm. He walked the same route every morning—past the crooked lamppost, the fogged bakery window, the bench with peeling paint that looked like falling petals. His sketchbook was tucked under his arm, pages already filled with fragments of the day before.

He paused at the mural again. The painted star had faded, but it still held its shape. He traced it in the air, not touching, just remembering. The postcard was folded neatly in his pocket, the handwriting etched into his mind.

“Promise: meet when stars fall again. —M.”

He hadn’t said her name aloud in years. Mira. The girl with coral ribbons and a laugh that made him feel like the world was bigger than it was. He wondered where she was now. If she remembered. If she’d ever come back.

Across the countryside, Mira Santos sat by the bus window, her fingers curled around the ceramic pot she’d carried since college. It was chipped at the rim, but she liked it that way. Imperfect things felt more honest.

The city had receded behind her—glass towers, efficient sidewalks, the quiet loneliness of people who never looked up. She watched rice fields blur past, the green stretching wide and slow. Her heart beat in a rhythm she hadn’t felt in years.

She thought about Alden.

She hadn’t meant to leave without saying goodbye. But life had a way of rushing forward, and she’d been afraid—of staying, of failing, of being seen too clearly. She’d buried the memory of the mural, the promise, the boy with charcoal on his fingers.

Until Lola’s message arrived.

“Seventieth next month. Home.”

And suddenly, the mural wasn’t just a memory. It was a compass.

The bus pulled into the station just after noon. Mira stepped out into the heat, the air thick with the scent of bread and dust. The town looked smaller than she remembered, but also more vivid. Children ran past her, laughing, their shoes slapping against the pavement.

She walked slowly, taking in every detail. The lamppost still leaned. The bakery still fogged its windows. The bench still peeled.

And then she saw it.

The mural.

The painted star.

It was faded, yes. The blue had dulled, the edges chipped. But it was still there. Still waiting.

Mira stood in front of it, her suitcase at her side, the ceramic pot tucked under her arm. She didn’t touch the wall. Not yet. Instead, she closed her eyes and let the memory rise.

Two children. A summer. A promise.

She opened her eyes and whispered, “I’m here.”

Alden was sketching in the square when he saw her.

At first, she was just another figure in the crowd—long dark hair, coral sweater, suitcase in hand. But then she turned toward the mural, and something in her posture caught him.

He froze.

She reached out, fingers hovering just above the painted star.

And Alden knew.

It was her.

Mira.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched as she stood there, quiet and still, like someone listening to a song only she could hear.

Then she turned and walked toward Lola Amalia’s house, disappearing around the corner.

Alden sat back, heart thudding, sketchbook open on his lap. He drew her silhouette from memory, the way her fingers had hovered, the way her head had tilted.

He didn’t know what would happen next.

But the stars had begun to fall again.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***