The townsfolk whispered the word lawbreaker like a curse, though no one ever saw her steal, cheat, or harm. Elara’s crime was smaller, quieter: she painted the abandoned walls at night. Each dawn, grey brick blossomed with color—wild gardens, laughing faces, constellations that had never been mapped.
The sheriff declared it vandalism. Signs went up: CITIZEN, REPORT THE LAWBREAKER. Children memorized the shapes of her stars instead. Shopkeepers found customers lingering by her murals longer than by their own wares.
One morning, the sheriff himself stopped, caught by a field of painted poppies so vivid he swore he smelled their red. He pulled down a sign, folded it into his pocket.
By dusk, the word had changed. No longer whispered, but painted in gold across the town square: Lawbreaker.
And beneath it, in looping script: Breaking laws that should never have been written.
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