Beyond the Flagpole

Beyond the Flagpole: Wrong Uniform, Right Direction

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🌘 Part One: The Leaving

The bell rang, though no one heard it.
Not the students standing in rows, not the teachers with their measuring gazes. Only Mira felt its echo—a chime without sound, ringing in her chest.

She looked down. Wrong uniform again.
White when it should have been gray.
The collar slightly askew, the tie not quite right. A quiet, familiar mistake. One she used to fix in the mirror, biting her lip so hard it left little crescents.

But this time… she didn’t fix it.
Didn’t tug the tie straight or check her reflection.
She simply stepped out of the line.

The field blurred behind her. Voices faded.
She kept walking, past the flagpole, past the old school fence with peeling paint, until the roads became unfamiliar. A bus stop, but no camp bus. Just an old public vehicle rumbling by, engine coughing like it had memories too.

She got in without a word.

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🌺 Part Two: The Truck and the Pink Horizon

The bus should have stopped.
But it didn’t.

Mira blinked, and suddenly the world changed gears. She was no longer seated, but crouched in the back of a slow-moving truck. A delivery vehicle maybe—its wooden panels warm under her hands, smelling faintly of clove and old rain.

She tried to speak.
“Help...?”
But the driver didn’t hear. Or maybe he did, but chose not to answer.
The engine growled gently like a creature that knew the road better than anyone else.

Mira watched the world pass:
Dusty edges of farmland, a scattering of dragonflies, a glimpse of windblown scarecrows standing like quiet sentinels.
Time became syrupy, bending like sunlight on glass.

And then—
The truck slowed. The driver leaned out his window and pointed.

There it was.
A village gate, carved from stone the color of rose petals, its edges kissed by moss. The air shimmered with sunset light, and the shadows were long, painted in hues of mauve and gold.

Beyond the gate, the sea opened wide—calm, endless, reflecting the pink-orange sky like a sleeping mirror.
And nestled beside it, the village exhaled serenity: thatched rooftops, small offerings at doorsteps, children’s laughter like wind chimes.

Mira climbed down without a word.
The truck drove off, its wheels barely whispering goodbye.

She stood at the gate, unsure if she had arrived somewhere…
or if she had finally left something behind.

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🌺 Part Three: The Offering

As Mira stepped through the Balinese gate, the scent of frangipani greeted her like a familiar lullaby.

She wandered slowly.

The village was alive yet hushed, like it knew it was part of a dream. The pink light made everything shimmer—banana leaves, temple walls, the waves rolling far beyond the edge of the houses.

Children ran past her, laughing with kites shaped like birds. A woman arranging flowers smiled as if she recognized Mira, though they’d never met.
And then—

In the courtyard of a quiet shrine, she saw it.

A small offering tray, just placed. On it were:

• A folded gray ribbon—the exact shade of the uniform from her old school dreams.

• A tiny wooden toy truck, no bigger than her palm.

• And a delicate flower with five pink petals, shaped like a star.

At the center of the offering, a note.
Handwritten. No name. Just a few soft words:

“You wore what they gave you. But you came here in your own color.”
“Stay, or go. But walk light, child of the in-between.”

Mira held the ribbon gently. It fluttered in the breeze like a leaf that had let go of the tree—no longer bound by routine or rules, just gliding on its own rhythm.

She smiled, not because she fully understood…
But because for once, she didn’t have to.

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📝 Author’s Note

This story is inspired by a recurring dream—one of uniforms, repetition, and a mysterious escape to a pink-tinted village. Through fiction, the dream found a new meaning, gently transformed into something freeing and beautiful. 🌺✨

“Even from restriction, you can find freedom, beauty, and new meaning.”

 

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