We ran where the wool roads curved and climbed, past sherbet trees and licorice skies, where chimneys whispered in loops of thread and cloudstacks blinked with candy eyes. The rainbows weren’t painted — they lived, they breathed, each stripe a pulse from a dreaming hill. They softened our steps with their velvet light and bent time’s clock to something still. The houses hummed in patchwork tones, stitched with lullabies and stories spun. Their doors were open like hopeful arms, each window catching the drop of sun. We knew the color wouldn’t last — that dusk would drink the sugared air. So we hurried home through melted hues, with flecks of gold still in our hair. And just as the indigo bowed its head, we slipped inside our knitted dome — heartbeats wrapped in woven silence, finally, tenderly, home. Made with love and wools