In a sleepy town where the sidewalks bloomed with chalk drawings and the air always smelled like warm bread, there lived a girl named Emi. She wore a lemon-yellow dress almost every day, the kind that twirled just right when she spun in circles. Her hair was always a little messy from chasing butterflies, and she carried a tiny red notebook in which she scribbled poems about clouds and cookies.
Everyone in town knew Emi. Not because she was loud or tried to stand out, but because she had a way of making people smile. She once left cookies on the doorstep of a grumpy baker — who, to everyone’s shock, smiled for the first time in years the next day. When the librarian’s cat went missing, Emi made posters with little crayon hearts and found it asleep under the library stairs.
But the cutest thing about Emi wasn’t her dress, her poems, or her butterfly-chasing adventures. It was that she believed even the smallest kindness could grow into something magical. And somehow, in her little corner of the world, it always did.
