By morning,
the world would never know.

For she rose with laughter on her lips,
and clothed herself in colors
loud enough to drown her sorrow.
Her voice carried across the market street,
joking, singing,
bright as summer wheat in the wind.

No one guessed how carefully
she fastened joy to her face,
as if it were another veil—
not of cloth,
but of survival.

She learned long ago:
if her laughter was bright enough,
no one would notice the shadows in her eyes.
If she made others feel seen,
they would not think to look
at the loneliness she carried.

And so she gave herself a vow,
a quiet oath beneath all the noise:

“I will be the one who never lets another
feel forgotten.
I will be the hand that reaches.
The smile that insists you belong.”

Even as her own heart whispered
that she was still waiting,
still hoping
for a hand that might one day reach back—
not out of pity,
not out of passing kindness,
but out of love.

That hope she kept hidden,
folded in the lanterns of her soul,
like a flame no storm could touch.