"The darkest nights birth the fiercest lights."
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Somewhere in the depth of forgotten streets, a girl keeps walking. Feet bruised, spirit worn, heart heavy. The world around her hums a cruel lullaby — of poverty, broken promises, and eyes that have only ever looked down on her.
Mercy. That's her name. A name no one ever cared to remember, but one she clings to like a fading ember in a storm.
The road ahead is cloaked in shadows, the kind that swallow the weak and mock the fallen. But in the distance — faint, almost teasing — is a light. Small. Flickering. Barely there. And yet, it's enough. Enough to keep her moving. Enough to make her believe she can dust off the curses hung on her mother's shoulders and break the chains her father's blood left behind.
She doesn't seek pity. She doesn't ask for a handout. All she wants is a chance to prove that even the abandoned can rise, that a little girl from the slums, chasing an almost invisible light, can find a way out.
She walks for her mother.
For the childhood she never had.
For the name she swore she'd make them all remember.
And in the dark, beneath skies that have seen too much grief, Mercy whispers to the wind — not a prayer, not a plea — but a promise.
"I won't break."
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"Even a dying flame can spark a wildfire."