Once upon a time, there was a young girl with wide eyes full of desire, living in an arid village where words fell to the ground like dry leaves, and no one picked them up.
One late summer day, under circumstances no one ever really understood, a mature man appeared—foreign, well-dressed, and seemingly knowing exactly where he was going. They were different, very different. Yet something drew them together, like two stars that brush past one another and for an instant merge into a supernova, brighter than anything they had ever known: a light of extreme intensity, visible to any naked eye that wished to see it. It wasn't a law of the universe, but chance—a rare, perhaps unique chance: two stars from different galaxies whose paths crossed.
In the young girl’s eyes, this man represented the chance to fulfill her dreams, and she chose to follow him. He wasn’t seeking amusement—his life was empty, and he saw in her something worth protecting, valuing. He didn’t desire to possess her, but to build a shared dream together.
The man swore to himself that making this young girl happy would be the mission of his life. They celebrated their union before an ancient tree, whose roots touched the earth and whose branches brushed the sky. They exchanged a promise no paper recorded, but which the voice of the wind seemed to preserve among the leaves. To seal that moment, they exchanged two forged iron rings and hung a lock on the Bridge of Promises, where they swore: “We will shine together forever.” From that day on, every gesture, every word, every step was a tribute to that silent promise.
They built a home, and in that home—while the walls still smelled of lavender and hope—three little ones appeared. No one saw them arrive: it was as if that stellar contact had generated, in their fusion, three beams of light slipping into the silence of dawn. Born of love and longing, as if happiness had taken shape with arms and curious eyes. Their games and laughter filled the house with the magic of lightness. They created a common language, a shared path.
Years passed, with the ups and downs life brings. But they remained united, and that allowed them to overcome obstacles. They kept their promise: whenever a problem arose, they talked it over while looking into each other’s eyes, and everything ended in laughter.
The man left his homeland and agreed to live in a place among the mountains, where he did not speak the language, and adapted to a foreign land. He did it for her. He never said it aloud, but every gesture of his shouted it.
Months passed. The man began to fall ill; his light had dimmed. Perhaps because the mountains blocked his light. At first, nothing was visible—just persistent fatigue, a deeper pain. He had stopped shining in his eyes, but not in his devotion. He kept being present, though more and more silently.
At first, she seemed concerned. But the man, who knew her like his own breath, felt that something was wrong. When she called doctors to examine him, she did so with a distant tone, as if it were a formality. And that hurt him.
The illness worsened. His light grew weaker. His need for her intensified. Slowly, it turned into dependence. And she, who had once sought his protection, began to feel suffocated. Dissatisfied. It was time to give, to yield, to sacrifice. To make up for his lack of light with her own. And she thought she wasn’t ready for that.
She had heard of a Witch who, they said, knew how to solve such problems. And it was to her that she turned.
The Witch was quick to appear. She wore no cloak but bore a smile sharp as a blade in velvet. She wasn’t alone: she brought a shiny, fragrant apple wrapped in a black silk handkerchief. It was the apple that promised a bright future, free from the chains of the past.
“Eat,” she said, gracefully handing her the apple, “and you will forget everything that held you back. You will start again from yourself, and be the mistress of your destiny.”
The girl, hesitant, reached out. She took the apple but didn’t immediately bring it to her lips. She held it between her fingers, murmuring, “But I can’t abandon him... he did so much for me… and now he’s sick, he needs me… And besides… we promised to talk to each other if ever problems arose.”
The Witch stared at her with empty, shining eyes: “You owe him nothing. What he did for you was a way to smother you, to keep you close. It’s a refined form of violence. You deserve freedom. Tell your story as a wound, not a debt. You can and must take everything from him, thanks to the laws of our Kingdom… it won’t be hard. Leave him in his illness: sooner or later he’ll make a mistake. And you’ll be free. Free to shine.”
It was the first time, after so many years — forgetting all the care, the affection, the constant attention she had always been surrounded by — that the girl thought she had finally found someone who truly cared for her. So she nodded and bit into the apple.
After the bite, everything seemed clearer. She stopped listening to him. She suffered. She waited only for one thing: to be free of him. He continued to speak to her in the language of love. And the sweeter his words were, the more she perceived them as violent. She wanted to leave but knew he wouldn’t let her go easily. She had never truly loved him: she had only believed she did. In reality, she had been the victim of a violent man, she thought. A man who fed on her light. And now, finally, she would shine alone.
But one day, the man—by then extinguished, emptied—asked her for help. She looked away. Pretended not to hear. And then, with what was left of his voice, he cried out: “You are ungrateful!”
This word, in the Kingdom of the New Light, was a crime.
She appeared before the Court and declared she had felt threatened. She said that this man, once full of love, now smothered her. That his fading light sought to pull her into darkness.
The man was summoned. He tried to explain. He said that illness had extinguished the light of his heart. He asked for forgiveness.
But the Kingdom's Court had no ears. Only white eyes and long fingers that pointed and wrote sentences in the air.
“Accusing a woman of ingratitude,” they declared, “is a crime against the new light. And the penalty is the loss of all that one has loved.”
And so it was.
They took his children. They took his home. They took his voice. And with his three beams of light extinguished, the man entered silence.
Deprived of his three beams of light, the man found himself immersed in growing darkness. His once warm and full light weakened until it went out. Perhaps he didn’t die, but no one ever heard from him again.
She, on the other hand, shone. With a new, apparent light. Everything around her glittered. But none of these lights were real. It was a brilliance that didn’t warm.
Much later, one night, the man returned. Not in flesh. But in a dream. He didn’t speak. He simply looked at her.
And in the man’s eyes—worn out, silent, yet intact in his truth—there was forgiveness. And the love of before. The kind no new light had ever managed to erase.
She awoke. Heart racing. Breathing short. A chill ran down her spine. It was the frost that follows the explosion. The black hole that absorbs matter and light. Silence.
She opened her eyes in her golden bed, beneath a crystal chandelier. Around her, everything glittered. But that light didn’t warm. It didn’t speak. It was artificial light—reflected, soulless.
And then she understood: the true light had been betrayed the moment she forgot where it came from.