By Zoha Salman
Two years had passed. Every day I would sit under the old oak tree. It had been our place, our haven.
One night I lay there, looking up at the endless veil of darkness. I could see every star, scattered like moon-dust across that midnight canvas. I realized then that these heavenly flickering sparks were like little beacons of hope for lost souls like me, and a smile spread across my face. It was the first time I had genuinely smiled since my mother’s death, because in that moment, in that sky full of stars, I swore I could see her.
A beautiful story of loss and acceptance.
Sweet.
Lovely.