Chapter 4: Festival of the Painted Star

The town bloomed into color as Lola Amalia’s birthday approached. Lanterns hung from telephone wires like soft moons, swaying gently in the breeze. Stalls lined the square, selling sweet rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves, hand-painted fans, and tiny jars of pickled mango. Children darted between tables, their laughter echoing off the old school walls.

Alden stood at the edge of the square, sketchbook open, pencil moving in quiet arcs. He wasn’t drawing the people—not yet. He was drawing the mural. The painted star. It had faded over the years, dulled by rain and sun and time, but it still held its shape. Still watched over the town like a memory that refused to be forgotten.

He remembered the first time he’d touched that wall. Mira had dipped her fingers in blue paint and pressed her palm against the concrete. “It’s not just a star,” she’d said. “It’s a promise.”

Alden had laughed, unsure what she meant. But he’d followed her lead, pressing his own hand beside hers. Two prints. Two names. One vow.

“If we ever get lost,” she’d whispered, “we’ll find our way back to each other. And to this place.”

He hadn’t thought about that moment in years. But now, with the postcard in his pocket and the mural in front of him, it felt like the past was folding itself back into the present.

Mira arrived at the square just after noon, her coral sweater catching the light. She moved slowly, taking in the sights—the lanterns, the stalls, the mural. Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch the wall again, but she didn’t. Not yet.

She spotted Lola near the food tables, laughing with neighbors and handing out slices of cassava cake. Mira smiled. Her grandmother was a force of nature—blunt, warm, and impossible to ignore.

“Mira!” Lola called, waving her over. “Come, eat. You look thin.”

“I’m fine, Lola,” Mira said, hugging her. “You look radiant.”

Lola snorted. “Radiant is for brides. I’m seventy and stubborn.”

They sat together, sharing food and stories. Mira listened more than she spoke, letting the rhythm of the town settle into her bones. It felt strange and familiar, like slipping into an old song.

Later, as the sun dipped low and the lanterns began to glow, Mira wandered back to the mural. The square had emptied slightly, the crowd shifting toward the stage where a local band was setting up.

She stood in front of the painted star, the chipped blue edges catching the light. She reached out, fingers brushing the wall. The texture was rough, uneven. Real.

A memory rose—Alden’s laugh, the way he’d held his pencil like it was a lifeline, the way he’d looked at her like she was something worth drawing.

She whispered his name.

“Alden.”

And behind her, someone said, “You remembered.”

She turned.

He stood a few feet away, sketchbook in hand, eyes soft and unreadable. His hair was a little longer, his jaw sharper, but the quiet steadiness was the same.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure either,” she replied.

They stood in silence, the mural between them. The painted star. The promise.

“I found the postcard,” Alden said, pulling it from his sketchbook. “It was tucked in the back. I don’t know how it got there.”

Mira took it gently, fingers tracing the faded ink. Her handwriting. Her words.

“Promise: meet when stars fall again.”

“I meant it,” she said softly.

“I know,” he replied.

They didn’t speak much after that. Just stood together, watching the lanterns sway and the stars begin to blink into the sky.

The mural glowed faintly in the dusk, and for a moment, it felt like they were twelve again—two kids with paint on their hands and hope in their hearts.

But they weren’t children anymore.

And the promise they’d made was no longer just a memory.

It was a beginning.

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