Lyra lived in a village where beauty overflowed, though she rarely noticed it. The hills rolled gently beyond the fields, kissed by the light of dawn. A river wove its silver thread through the valley, and birds sang harmonies that danced with the breeze. But Lyra, her gaze fixed on the ground, saw only the soil she tilled, the paths she trudged, the weeds she pulled. The wonders around her were a constant she had grown blind to.
Each day was much the same. At dawn, Lyra would rise and step into her well-worn boots. Her hands, rough from years of labor, would grip the handle of her hoe as she worked the fields from morning until dusk. She heard the birdsong, but it felt like background noise. She saw the colors of the sunrise, but they passed over her like fleeting shadows. Life was functional, rhythmic, and ordinary. (more…)