Isabella stalked forward with the intensity of a woman who had just found salvation—or carbs. Her footsteps were quick, sharp, little stomps that sent tiny puffs of dust into the air. She narrowed her eyes at the tall grassy stalks swaying in the gentle mountain breeze, her heart thumping as she crouched.
"…No way," she whispered.
She leaned closer, pushing aside the stems with both hands and squinting suspiciously because, well, she didn't trust happiness. Happiness usually led to pain, disaster, or men.
But this—this was rice.
Actual. Freaking. Rice.
Not hallucination rice. Not dream rice. Not the sad non-existent rice she cried over at night while eating meat for the fiftieth time. This was genuine, shimmering-white, grain-filled, beautiful rice stalks. The kernels shimmered faintly with an opalescent glow—of course they did. Everything in this mountain shimmered like it was auditioning for a magical girl transformation sequence.
