Short Story Four

"Lavender, are you sure you don't want to come to the festival tonight?" Eleanor called out from the kitchen, her voice muffled by the clang of pots and pans.

"I'm positive, Eleanor. I just don't feel like it," Lavender replied, her nose buried in a book. The words danced in the air, a melody of ink and paper.

Eleanor emerged from the kitchen, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. "But it's the King's birthday! Everyone will be there!"

Lavender sighed, her deep violet eyes flickering up from the pages. "I know, I know. It's just... I've never felt like I truly belonged.