The room was a soft pastel pink, its walls adorned with stickers of butterflies and flowers. A wooden shelf leaned against one corner, crammed with dolls in varying states of use, some dressed in frilly gowns, others with their hair tangled from hours of play. A lace curtain swayed gently from the open window, letting in the warm village air. Sitting on a low stool in the center of the room was a small girl, no older than seven, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
Velma giggled as her grandmother brushed through her unruly locks, the older woman humming a soft tune. The grandmother, with her silver-gray hair tied in a neat bun and glasses perched low on her nose, moved with practiced ease. The comb's bristles glided through Velma's hair, each stroke gentle and soothing.
"Grandma," Velma said, her voice full of youthful curiosity, "why do you always say one day I'll find someone who loves me?"
