In the dusty, sun-scorched village of Oakhaven, where hope was as scarce as rain, lived a little girl named Anya. Her world was one of muted browns and weary grays, where the adults spoke in hushed tones of a better past. Anya, however, possessed a secret magic. Her paintings didn’t just depict the world; they shaped it.It began with a single sunflower. Frowning at the cracked, barren earth outside her window, Anya dipped her brush into a pot of vibrant yellow and painted a tall, cheerful sunflower on her bedroom wall. The next morning, a real, identical sunflower had pushed