Voyage of Luna.

Voyage of Luna.

Luna was an orphan, but she never called herself abandoned.
She grew up in rented rooms and borrowed seasons in dark , learning early that the world would not slow down to explain itself. There were people who looked at her with pity, and others who whispered warnings about how a girl without roots might grow crooked. Luna listened—but she did not carry their voices home.
At night, when the city slept, she taught herself how to be steady. She learned that hunger passes, that loneliness softens, and that fear shrinks when named. No one applauded her small victories, yet she celebrated them quietly—cleaning her wounds, stitching her dreams in dark night and  raising herself in  day a time.
She failed often. When she did, the world was quick to judge. But Luna never measured her worth by the height of others’ expectations. She measured it by how honestly she stood after falling.
Years later, people would say she was strong, as if strength had been gifted to her. Luna knew better. Strength was something she chose—every time she refused to let someone else’s opinion decide her future.
She walked forward lightly, unburdened.
Because when you are raised by your own courage,
the noise of the world fades into silence.