Soft as a whispered prayer, the Luna rises in the blackest sky. No sun crowns her. No spotlight finds her. Still — she glows. Pale green flame of the midnight woods, she does not fight the darkness. She becomes visible within it. Wings like sacred veils, marked by trials, she carries the night without fear. And in that velvet vastness where grief once swallowed light, she answers softly: I am still luminous. Not because the dark is gone — but because I endured it.