There was once a time when the sun forgot who she was.
She rose every morning, golden and dutiful, but something inside her burned hollow.
The sky held her, the Earth received her warmth, but she did not feel the pulse.
Then, one dawn, a child on the mountain whispered her name —
not with a word, but with breath.
Not from the lips, but from the soul's marrow.
And the sun flared.
Not in fire, but in remembrance.
Because it is not light that brings the morning, but the sound of being called home.
And from that day forward, she rose not only to shine — but to sing.