I have constantly found myself eclipsed by the beautiful silhouette that stands before me. It seems that no matter how fast I run toward the sunlight, it turns just to shadow me once again. No matter how much I bend and break myself to impress—be it through talent or good deeds—it never seems to be enough for me to feel the warm rays of the sun shine on me. I can see it, feel its warmth lingering on the asphalt beneath the soles of my feet, despite the bruises that cover them, but I will never truly know the sun's rays warming my skin or see its bright glare blind my eyes.

When the clouds blocked its light, it was I who blew until my lungs were empty and my eyes fell shut. When an eclipse covered its beauty, it was I who threw up my rope and pulled until my palms were raw and my warm blood flowed. When its fiery heat was about to go out, it was I who fanned the embers until they burned brightly once more.

I wander aimlessly after the beautiful silhouette I am doomed to remain behind. I walk until my legs grow weak, until my knees echo with an unfriendly crack… my face meets the cold asphalt. As I lie there in my motionless form, and as the silhouette grows smaller against the horizon, its dark shadow seems to stretch back toward me—as if refusing to let me escape the darkness that covers me. Despite my sacrifices, I remain a prisoner in the cold shadow that falls over me.

Yet I cannot hate the one whose shadow spills over my existence. After all, I reached out my hand to the silhouette every time it fell, I offered comfort each time it carried sorrow. There is no regret—I have fallen for its beauty and remained in the darkness far too long. There is no hatred in my heart. My only hope is that when my body grows cold and the beating in my chest has ceased, they lay me to rest on the highest hill, so I may finally feel the warmth of the sun.

The youngest sister.