There once was a boy made of light.

Bright, warm, beloved.

People smiled when he entered the room,

praised how he lit the way.

And a girl—his sister—made of shadow.

Quiet. Strange.

Where she moved, the light bent.

People said she ruined things.

So they looked away.

Their mother,

kind and practical,

a lover of gardens and growing things—

told the boy:

“Shine bright, and they will love you.”

To the girl:

Nothing.

⸻

The girl was buried

gently in the earth.

Covered in quiet soil.

Forgotten,

but not gone.

The boy wept.

“She’s my sister,” he whispered.

“She should be seen too.”

But no one listened.

They only told him:

Shine brighter.

Deep below, the girl whispered:

“I didn’t ask to be born like this.

I didn’t ask to be shadow.

I just… am.”