She'd heard stories. Stories about the boy who lived in the mansion. Stories about the boy's father, cold and stern. She'd heard rumors. Rumors about neglect. Rumors about rebellious behavior.

The boy was just that: a boy, no older than ten. Adrien Agreste was his name.

And apparently, he died.

Six years later, and she still didn't want to believe it.

The shop windows flew open as she walked along the path, people smiling and waving.

"Good morning, Marinette!"

"Good morning!" she greeted, waving back. Her sketchpad was held tightly to her chest, quills and ink wells in a jar that was wrapped around her waist. She was Marinette.

She was the seamstress. The clutz. The bakery daughter. The one that had so much love in her heart that there weren't enough people in the world to spread it to.

And the weirdo, who almost everyone was nice to, but almost no one got within arm's distance of. The one who didn't let such things bother her, and was considered even weirder for doing do.

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng!"

Marinette halted, not even bothering to let her sigh stay mental. She turned, facing a blond girl who wore enough make-up for an entire kingdom. Her hair was tied back, her icy blue eyes boring into Marinette's. Her white-and-black striped dress was complimented by a yellow jacket and belt that served no actual purpose; it was only there to look good. Marinette didn't say it, but it was a nice allegory for the blond's presence.

"What do you want, Chloe?" she asked instead, her chipper voice replaced with one that was tired.

"You're in my way," Chloe responded, pointing over Marinette's shoulder. Marinette raised a brow, looking around to see that there was perfectly good walking space to her left and right.

Sabrina—Chloe's orange-haired lackey—poked out from behind her, adjusting her glasses. "The center of the path is for Chloe and I."

"That's right, so step off, freak," Chloe said, making a 'shoo' gesture.

Marinette knew Chloe didn't care about anyone but herself; well, herself and Sabrina. She had a heart somewhere, but it was reserved for very few people.

The 'freak' comment didn't even bother Marinette, honestly. It was natural for people to raise brows at a girl who refused to wear dresses, and she was far too used to it to be affected.

She knew she shouldn't move. She should glare Chloe down. She should stand her ground. She should demand that Chloe walk around if she wanted to go somewhere so badly. Chloe wouldn't touch her—she would be too afraid to catch 'the weird'—so all Marinette had to do was refuse to leave that spot.

And yet, without a word, she stepped out of the way, a voice in her head screaming as Chloe and Sabrina laughed and walked past her. That was the norm; having all the means to do something about her situation but never actually doing it.

Marinette, the pushover.

She left the village, going to the only place she could experience true quiet. A small hill with a tree at the top, which rested before a wide open landscape of streams, birds, and a forest. It was easily the most beautiful sight the village had to offer.

Marinette sat in front of the tree and leaned back. She'd gone here so much, it almost felt like she'd worn out the side of the tree, and leaning into it felt so natural, as if she belonged there. She skimmed through her sketchpad, looking for an open page. Her hand then moved to the jar around her waist, screwing the top off and pulling out a single quill and ink well.

Dipping the quill inside the ink, she began to draw the outline of a dress. Her creativity sparked as soon as quill met paper, and she drew out how she felt.

Her frustration took the form of sharp, jagged lines, thick and relentless. Her joy became smooth, curved lines, light and cheerful. Her loneliness turned into dots, lining areas of the dress that no one would normally look at.

She breathed. Though the ink was a simple black color, she could see the colors between the lines. She could trace them with her hand and compare them to things that people would immediately understand.

Chiffon white, lemon yellow, apricot orange, and apple red. They blended together and formed a sunrise that only she could see.

"Marinette?"

"E-EEP!"

Marinette flailed, snapping out of her trance as she jerked her head over. Alya, her best and only friend, stood at her side, hunched over with a small smirk.

"Girl, you gotta stop zoning out like this."

Marinette blushed, averting her gaze. "I-it's how I get my best ideas."

Alya laughed, taking a seat next to her, not caring about how dirty her blue dress got. She shrugged her shoulders, nearly stretching the fabric of a plaid jacket that she'd clearly had for a few years too many. "If you say so."

She leaned over, eyeing Marinette's sketchpad. Marinette swallowed, but knew she could trust Alya, so she tilted the sketchpad in her general direction. Alya smiled, clearly seeming to like it.

"Not bad. Now if only you could stop staring out at the sky with that look of yours."

"T-that look?" Marinette echoed.

Alya snorted. "You know, this..." The back of her hand went to her forehead as she dramatically threw herself over Marinette's lap. She cried out in a terrible impression of Marinette's voice, "Oh, won't the boy of my dreams someday return to my side! Until then, I can't bring myself to carry on!"

Marinette managed a smile, but it faded as she looked back out at the landscape. Alya pushed herself back into a sitting position, then sighed, putting a loving arm around Marinette's shoulder.

"You can't go on like this. It's been what? Five years?"

"Six," Marinette corrected gently.

"See, that's what I'm talking about! I know you don't want to admit it, but Adrien's gone! You gotta get over him..."

Marinette sighed, gripping her sketchpad tightly. "I can't. He was the first and only crush I've ever had."

"Then find a new crush!" Alya encouraged. "You're cute, you're smart, and there are plenty of guys here—"

"It's not that easy!" Marinette retorted. "Adrien was... Adrien was more than just a crush! He..."

She trailed off, sighing again. "He was special. I never would've found my love for fashion if it weren't for him. He was kind, funny, and didn't deserve whatever happened to him. I can't just forget him."

Alya frowned sympathetically. It was always like this, and Alya never stopped trying, even though she understood that Marinette just didn't have the capacity to stop loving someone. Her heart was too big for that.

Alya exhaled, then smoothed out one of Marinette's pigtails before giving her a gentle nuzzle. "I know..."

Marinette didn't respond, remaining still until she felt Alya's warmth leave her side. She glanced over.

She was alone again, or at the very least, felt alone. The sounds of the landscape faded from her ears, seeming even more distant than before.

Idly, she thought, Might as well keep sketching...

"Maman! Papa!" Marinette greeted gently as she entered the bakery.

Her parents were hard at work, as always, Sabine at the counter while Tom ran around the bakery with an spectacular speed for such a large man. Though the bakery made more than enough money as it was, Tom and Sabine loved the bustle of the bakery during the busier hours. There was a certain energy between them—a spark—that Marinette could always appreciate. No one in the village could deny that her parents had a deep emotional connection that transcended the typical standards of marital love, and Marinette could even see it in the lingering touches as Tom passed Sabine a box to give to one of the customers, their hands lingering.

They offered Marinette a look and a smile, before getting right back to work.

As Marinette started to walk on by, Sabine turned. "Did you get any good inspiration today, dear?"

"Mhm!" Marinette lifted her sketchpad for emphasis, though didn't turn the page to her current sketch; it was a work-in-progress, after all.

She blushed. "Also, Alya is still wearing that jacket I made her."

Tom laughed from a distance, amused. "And you're surprised? You made it so well."

"I-it wasn't made to be worn for so long though!" Marinette protested, flushing harder at the praise. They might as well have thrown her in with the rest of the cooked pastries, her burning cheeks having baked her to doneness.

Sabine giggled, looking back over the counter for just a moment to ensure that no one else needed her attention. "Alya certainly seems to think it was."

Marinette tried to pout, to show how displeased she was with her parents' teasing, but seeing the way Tom and Sabine got right back to business, Tom even being so bold as to bend over and kiss Sabine's cheek as he passed her a croissant, Marinette didn't have it in herself to be mad.

She smiled, walking away and saying her usual lines of "I'm going up to work on my next project" and "call me if you need me." It was standard, though her parents never needed her assistance. They were a perfect pair if she'd ever seen one.

She entered her room, the whites and blues of morning replaced with the oranges and reds of the afternoon. Marinette cast a gaze at her sketchpad, humming to herself as she recalled her sunset dress. She'd drawn it during the morning; would it have been better to wait?

Probably not. Part of the fun was her own imagination. If the sunset had already been there, her dress design would've looked exactly like any normal sunset. It wouldn't be her own style.

She flipped the sketchpad to the particular page, then closed the window, even pulling the curtains to ensure that she couldn't see the world's standard sunet. Her sunset would be hers and hers alone.

She sat down and started to work, the hours skating by as if they were minutes. Every stitch felt like both nothing and everything; it all mattered in the end, yet it went by so quickly. She was so invested in her work that she didn't even notice the shop close. Tom and Sabine already knew it would be pointless to insist that she sleep; they knew their daughter. Marinette knew them too, and loved that they were accepting regardless of what she did.

Because she had closed the curtains, she couldn't see the evening sky, and all sense of bedtime went by.

In the end, she ended up falling asleep at the table.

Marinette's dreams were simple yet complicated. She dreamt of pastries, which led to her parents. Of Tom's terrible pastry puns and Sabine's giggles. She dreamt of colors, ones that she hadn't even thought about that day. Cobalt blues and emerald greens.

And of course, she dreamt of fabric. Dancing fabric, weaving together in unnatural but beautiful patterns, forming the dress she would wear; just once, for the occasion. Then, Adrien would return, take her hand, and—

She did not recall ever hearing a rattling noise in her dreams.

Marinette stirred, an uneasy groan escaping her as she opened her eyes halfway. She searched for the sound, her head still swimming from not being awake enough.

As her eyes fell upon the window, she remembered that she had closed it. It was easy to remember, as the room had been so dark. The curtains remained as the were, keeping out so much of the evening moonlight. Yes, the only light she could see would be the two green ones that almost seemed pointed in her general direction.

Marinette stared at the lights groggily. Did she always have those?

The lights appeared to grow closer to her. They turned downwards, towards the table. Towards her sketchpad.

Her sketchpad was falling off the table, pulled by a presumably invisible force. Marinette couldn't tell; it was dark and she was tired.

She reached for it with a slow hand. The sketchpad left the table, but never met with the ground. Instead, it levitated. Marinette tried to grab it again—a delayed reaction—but it was pulled out her reach. The green lights went with the sketchpad, floating over to the window.

Her sketchpad was leaving. Wait, no, someone—something—was taking it.

Now Marinette was awake.

"H-hey!"

She stood up with a start, and the black figure—so easily camouflaged by the darkness and only given away by its green eyes—moved more quickly, escaping out the window. Marinette swore it snickered at her.

She dashed to the window, pulling the curtains open fully. She could see her sketchpad, and against the varying colors of the hours, she could see the black thing still carrying it.

Marinette sped downstairs without a second thought, opening and closing doors so fast that you'd think she was trying to break them.

She got outside and gave chase.