By Humaira
In a quiet village, where the winds whispered secrets and the trees swayed with stories untold, there lived a little girl named Mira. She was no ordinary child, for she believed in magic—not the kind found in books or tales, but a magic that danced in the rain and twinkled in the night sky. However, the world around her was not so kind to dreams. The villagers saw her as nothing more than an orphan, a child lost in silly fantasies. Her family was gone, her mother taken by the cruel hands of fate, and the warmth of a home was something she only knew in her dreams.
Mira spent her days wandering the village, her heart heavy with the weight of loneliness. The other children played with laughter in their eyes, but Mira had only the company of her thoughts and the occasional kindness of a passing stranger. The adults scolded her for her wild imagination, telling her that magic was for fools and dreamers. “You must grow up,” they would say, “and leave behind these childish notions.”
But Mira could not let go. She held onto her dreams as tightly as she could, for they were all she had.
One cold morning, as the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in her tiny, abandoned home, Mira woke to a world she did not recognize. The air was thick with a strange, shimmering mist, and the sounds of the village had faded to silence. She felt a pull, a gentle tug at her heart, leading her outside.
As she stepped into the mist, her eyes widened in disbelief. Before her stood a figure, cloaked in light and shadow, yet unmistakably familiar. It was her mother—her beautiful, loving mother, whom she had lost so many years ago. Tears welled up in Mira's eyes as she ran towards her, her small feet barely touching the ground.
“Mama,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Is it really you?”
Her mother smiled, a sad but tender smile, and wrapped Mira in her arms. The warmth of the embrace was like nothing she had ever felt before, a comfort that she had longed for in every lonely night. But there was something different about this embrace—it was fleeting, like the final breath of a dying breeze.
“Mira, my sweet child,” her mother spoke, her voice soft and ethereal. “I have always been with you, in every dream and every wish. But you must understand, the world is not always kind to those who dream. It will try to take your magic away, to scatter it like dust in the wind. But you must hold on, Mira. Hold on to the magic, for it is what keeps me here with you.”
Mira’s heart ached with a pain that was both sweet and sorrowful. She wanted to stay in this moment forever, to never let go of her mother again. But as she looked up, she saw her mother’s form beginning to fade, the light dimming into the mist.
“Mama, please don’t go,” Mira cried, but the words seemed to float away into the mist.
Her mother leaned down, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered, “I am always with you, Mira. In every raindrop, in every star, you will find me. Just believe.”
And then, as quickly as she had appeared, her mother was gone, leaving Mira alone in the mist once more.
When the mist finally cleared, Mira found herself back in the village, but something had changed. The world was just as harsh, just as unyielding, but Mira’s heart was different. She no longer cared what the villagers said or thought. She knew the truth—magic was real, and it lived in her heart, a bond to the mother she had loved and lost.
From that day on, Mira never stopped believing in magic. And though the villagers continued to mock her, they could not take away the light in her eyes or the warmth in her smile. For Mira had learned that even in the darkest of worlds, there is a light that can never be extinguished—the light of a dream that refuses to die.
By Humaira
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