The world went about its business around Esmera, jarring in its simplest sounds. She turned away from raucous laughter, keeping her arms folded over her chest. She flinched at loud shouts and walked faster.

She was all too overwhelmed by the sounds of the city even as she tried not to be aware of them. The state of her t-shirt and the smoky grey clouds that obscured the darkening sky had her on edge.

As if the wind whipping her loose hair about her face wasn't warning enough, the impending storm sent another in the drop that fell on Esmera's nose. She looked up at the sky.

The clouds bled into each other like smudged paint. More raindrops fell, faster now, racing each other to the ground. They settled on Esmera's eyelashes.

She put her head down and hurried along. Getting cornered by the rain would be the chocolate sauce on the suffocating foam of the spilt frappe that was her birthday.

Esmera's apartment was only two blocks away. She could beat the rain there.

When the rain unleashed itself upon the city, there were only a few people on the street. The rest had all found shelter beneath the roofs jutting out from nearby buildings because they had sense. Esmera didn't.

She closed her eyes as the rain enveloped her.

She liked the vitality in its crispness. She wanted to smell the wet leaves and the rain burning as it struck the hot tarmac. She wanted to feel the storm's fingers against her skin, reminding her that she was real.

So what if she caught a cold? It wouldn't be the worst thing that had happened to her today.

Esmera opened her eyes to see the rain coming down in a curtain too thick to see past. She wouldn't be able to spot a car swerving towards her even if its headlights were on. The realisation sent Esmera stumbling through the downpour, away from the street.

A nearby building extended a flight of stairs like a helping hand. Esmera ran for it, taking care not to slip.

She started up the stairs. There was a roughness to the terracotta tiles that seemed deliberate, almost as if they were trying to be part of some past time or place.

The air around Esmera went dry and still. She took a moment to catch her breath and glanced up at the ceiling.

She had escaped the rain.

All around her were laughing young couples and mothers with children running about their legs, all drenched or merely licked by the drizzle. The only thing Esmera had in common with them was that they were also seeking shelter from the storm.

Esmera looked out past the pillars at the rain which still pummelled the ground and any unfortunate person who hadn't been quick enough to escape the force of its fists.

Now Esmera's t-shirt was soaked through, but at least the coffee stain on the front had washed out. That was something that had gone right today. As insignificant as it was, it brought a tired, hesitant smile to Esmera's face.

The rest of her was wet too. Her dark curls were matted to her shoulder blades. Her jeans were cold. Her shoes squelched as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her socks felt gross and icy against her feet.

She forgot all about the gooseflesh the cold had raised over her skin when she caught sight of a bright banner hanging beside the doorway behind her.

Printed black bird feathers formed the insignia of the Museum of Indigenous and Diverse Art on its bottom right corner, but that wasn't what caught Esmera's eye.

Admission is FREE from 4-6 pm on weekdays! proclaimed the banner.

The door to the museum was cut into the wooden wall, tall enough for a giant to pass through it. Blocks carved with swirling shapes framed it. Within it was a set of glass doors that stood open.

Esmera studied the faded gold lettering above it.

The Museum of Indigenous and Diverse Art... why did it sound so familiar?

A scene of herself in jeans and a pink t-shirt flashed through Esmera's mind. She was sprinting up the terracotta stairs, pulling a girl in a purple dress behind her. It had been a different day, one that was sunny and dry.

Esmera had been here before.

It was when she was about thirteen and lived with the only people who had ever been kind to her. Mr and Mrs Thomas had even adopted her, and she had known security and stability for a short, precious time.

When Mr Thomas lost his fortune in a bad investment, Esmera had been returned to the system. It was a day she still remembered with sadness. She thought about it sometimes on dark, quiet nights; why bad things happened to good people.

With a start, Esmera realised that she had wandered towards the museum entrance without realising it. She stopped herself.

She dug her phone out of her bag and tapped the cracked screen. It was only 4:23 pm. Esmera had nowhere else to be, and she was as good as blind in the rain. Exploring the museum while she waited for the elements to calm down wasn't a bad idea. It might even be fun.

The other people taking cover from the rain seemed to be thinking along the same lines as they too headed towards the museum entrance. Soon, the ticket booths were swamped. Their attendants stamped and handed out tickets faster than Esmera would've thought possible. There were only three of them to hold back the sea of patrons.

Esmera kept her one arm around herself and didn't make eye contact as she took her ticket. She had barely mumbled a "thank you" before the ticket booth attendant called the next person in the queue forward.

After the bleakness that Esmera's eyes had become accustomed to outside, the brightness of the museum's lights blinded her. She blinked until the whiteness in her vision dissolved into a circular foyer. At its centre was a fountain formed by stone elephants spraying water from their trunks.

Esmera didn't remember this place, yet she did.

She didn't remember the tiles, each unique in its vivid colours and intricate patterns. She didn't remember the sturdy wooden posts towering past three storeys and up to the ceiling, or the dusty scent of history and art mixing with the weird and wonderful fragrances of modern people.

But she did remember her awe when she stared at the countless corridors that would lead her to the expressions of the most creative minds of centuries gone by. She did remember feeling like, among these foreign artworks from far-flung places she couldn't name, maybe a girl who felt lost could find a place for herself.

The same feeling filled Esmera now. Her smile was soft and warm, but it still felt weird.

When had joy become foreign to Esmera? When had happiness become a stranger?

No more would that be the case. Esmera was going to make this her best birthday ever.

Her shoes squeaked as she took a step. She froze, flinching. Looking around, she saw that nobody was pointing or laughing at her. Still, she tread gently to avoid any unwelcome attention.

At a tap on her shoulder, Esmera turned.

There was nobody within arm's reach of her.

Frowning, she turned in a circle, then stopped.

There it was, a doorway outlined with carved sunflowers. It wasn't a person who had tried to get Esmera's attention but a place.

It should've been a crazy, impossible idea, but if larks could bring Esmera flowers that whispered to her, she figured it wasn't any stranger than the rest of her life.

Esmera looked over her shoulder. None of the other patrons showed any interest in this corridor. Good. That meant it would be quiet without Esmera needing to silence the chatter. Heavens knew her mind was loud enough as it was.

Esmera headed towards the sunflower corridor while everyone else dashed for the Egyptian exhibit. As she neared it, her heart quickened, because she realised it wasn't silent after all.

Whispers drifted from it—the same whispers Esmera had heard every morning since her eighteenth birthday. She stopped, thinking. She had only ever heard this sound when she held a flower up to her ear.

The flower the lark had brought her this morning was in the purse resting against her hip. No way could she hear it all the way up here.

Besides, these whispers were louder, like multiple flowers calling to Esmera. She took one step forward, then another, her ears pricked for whatever secrets the whispers had for her.

Esmera stepped past the threshold and into a corridor that was long but not so long that she couldn't see the end of it. Circular lights beamed down from the ceiling, creating a comfortable brightness by which to see the paintings flanking the passage. The artworks were contained in smooth, gleaming bronze frames.

A sudden coldness stroked Esmera's skin. She shivered as she rubbed her hands on her arms. They were only a little warmer than the rest of her. Air-cons were often a blessing, but when one was soaked to the bone, they were a curse.

The whispers still echoed through the corridor, as persistent as ever, but Esmera paid them no heed. The sights she beheld were enough to drown out the sounds.

If there ever was a perfect place to view art, this was it.

Esmera forgot all about her wet t-shirt and her squelching shoes as the paintings pulled her into their enchanting, faraway world.

The first painting the exhibit had to offer was of a mountain with snow sprinkled over the top like icing sugar. The sun rose behind it, brilliant orange and bright yellow. Small, colourful houses dotted the mountainside. They had been painted in enough detail that they could be visualised but still left space for the imagination.

The scene took Esmera's breath away. She had never seen any place so spectacular; not when scrolling through travel destinations she'd never visit on the internet or travelling across the state to settle with another foster family who would barely tolerate her. Somehow, she felt that it was as familiar to her as if she had been there before.

Esmera shook her head. Now she was straining the bounds of possibility.

If she had ever been to this mountain village, she would've remembered it.

The next painting was different in content and theme. It showed five people sitting at a wooden table larger than Esmera's apartment. More food stood upon it than Esmera had eaten in her whole life. It was a feast unlike anything she could've imagined.

Yet it must be an ordinary occurrence for the painted people. The gold crowns on their dark heads and the shining silk of their garments said so. They must be royalty. They probably ate like this every day.

Esmera tilted her head as she studied the artwork. An older man and woman sat at the far ends of the table. They faced the two teenage girls sitting on either side of a young man at the centre of the table with something like adoration—or was it amusement? —on their small, painted faces. The younger royals, presumably their children, were turned towards each other. Their faces were contorted while their hands gestured wildly.

Esmera couldn't help but smile. She didn't have any brothers or sisters, but she had lived with enough to know that squabbling was often an expression of love in the language of siblings.

It was a big table, and so empty, but there was so much love around it. It radiated from the pigment that gave form to it even years after it had dried.

Esmera blinked away her reverie. It was just like her to get so immersed in art that she lost track of reality. As she returned to it, a sound struck her like a recoiling elastic band.

The whispers that called her here had grown louder.

Esmera frowned. Just when she thought this day couldn't get any stranger, it surprised her.

She was going to get to the bottom of this. Firstly, she had to make sure she wasn't just hearing things.

She turned her back on the doorway leading to the exhibit and leaned towards the painting of the royal family until her nose was nearly touching it. The whispers intensified, becoming loud enough to drown out Esmera's thoughts but not the voice that spoke behind her.

"You do know paintings are for looking at, not sniffing, don't you?"