There had been light before.
Of course there had.
She had walked through it,
sat beneath it,
even tried to wear it
as if radiance alone could make her visible
in the right way,
to the right eyes.
But it never truly saw her.
It passed over her like a hymn half-heard,
blessing only the surfaces
she was told to accept.
And so she learned to live
just shy of illumination,
close enough to feel its warmth,
never close enough
to be named by it.
Until the day the light paused.
A pause so quiet it trembled.
So soft it almost apologized.
And then it turned.
Not toward her,
but into her...
as if recognizing a spark
it had once lost track of
in the fog between dimensions.
It didn’t beam.
It didn’t bless.
It bowed.
Bent gently,
folded itself like an offering,
and whispered in rays too ancient to be spoken aloud:
"I know you.
I remember you.
You are not something I shine on.
You are the reason I was made."
And just like that,
she no longer needed to glow
to be felt.
She became the reason
mirrors softened.
The reason stars blinked slower.
The reason time exhaled.
No longer chasing brightness.
No longer waiting for approval.
She was.
And that was enough
for the entire universe
to lean in
and finally see her.
Not as spectacle.
Not as proof.
Not as metaphor.
But as the one
who had always been
worthy of illumination.