No one knows her name. No one cares.

She sits by her lonesome in the smallest, darkness corner in town. Mumbling and muttering parts and pieces of broken sentences to herself as she rocks back and forth with her head buried in her knees. And when night falls blanketing the earth, she goes home.

Most people say that she was broken by grief. Nothing remains except shattered pieces of her mind. But those are just rumors. It’s unknown whether they are true or not. But once agin, know one cares.

Sometimes I wonder what she’s really like. Sometimes I want to help her. Seeing her tucked away in that little dark corner makes me remember something that my mother used to tell me: ‘Wherevers there is light, the flowers will find it’. She was like a wilting flower; it’s petals once perfect and pure now dripping and losing all its color. Was she waiting to find the light? To redeem her alluring petals and vibrant colors? Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t. Maybe I should help her, maybe I shouldn’t. But then again, maybe I should.

All flowers find the light. But maybe they need help. And maybe, it takes one person to help them. Or maybe, someone can be the light—a person willing to help those whom seem lost and helpless. Maybe, maybe not. But

who Whould it hurt if I try to be the light in her darkened world?