No one cried when the star went out. No one noticed, no one cared, when the waning light vanished one day, curled up in the alley, shivering in the cold, fire extinguished by the icy tendrils that shrouded her soul. No one missed the light in her eyes, the warmth of her laugh, the bubbling of energy as she skipped along, shining through her dirt and rags, a small flame in the world of darkness, isolated from all her kin.

She was just a tiny little thing, with eyes as gold as the sun and hair the color of straw, dressed in the tattered remains of her dress, a weak little thing, just an ember, barely glowing, waiting for kindling. Kindling which never came.

The darkness was as kind as it was cruel, a soft blanket of cold and night, covering her gently, delicately, quickly. Only the darkness noticed, when the star went out. Only the darkness realized the absence of her light, her warmth, her energy. Only the darkness was there.

No one cried when the star went out, no one noticed when the light was gone. No one noticed. No one cared.