𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬

Anne-Marie's world existed in a watercolor wash of pastels. Her vintage dresses, the color of faded roses and forget-me-nots, swirled around her ankles as she walked. Sunlight, dappled through the leaves of towering oaks, cast a warm glow on her skin, the same golden light that shimmered on the dewdrops clinging to the daisy crowns she loved to wear. Her laughter, like the tinkling of wind chimes, chimed in with the melodies of the birds, a symphony that played only on Sundays, in the quiet haven of the wildflower meadow.