They told her,

“To earn your wings, you must pass through the world unseen,

and bring light to where none dares to look.”

So she did.

She crossed the veil in silence,

drifting over bodies — not corpses,

but lives still breathing,

souls already fading.

A boy curled beneath a bridge,

dreaming of warm bread and a name.

A woman counting cracks in a ceiling,

hoping someone, somewhere,

remembers she once laughed.

A child cradling a stuffed bear

as gunfire stitched holes in the night.

These were not her stories —

but they were her test.

She reached out,

not to fix,

not to save,

but to witness.

To see them.

Really see them.

In a world that looked away.

She learned:

Magic isn’t sparkles or flight —

it’s staying when it hurts.

It’s mourning strangers.

It’s giving your voice to the voiceless

and knowing you might never get it back.

When she returned,

they asked her what she had done.

She answered,

“I did not make them whole.

I did not stop the bleeding.

But I saw their pain and didn’t blink.

I wept, and I stayed.”

And so they gave her wings —

not delicate, not shimmering,

but forged from tears and truths.

Heavy. Honest.

Real