Maya is five, with long wavy brown hair and brown eyes; today the tall moving boxes make her feel very small and a soft knot lives in her tummy.
That night, shadows slid across the walls and stretched like sleepy giants; Maya hugged Pip and felt both scared and very sad for the cozy home she had left behind.
Maya tried to be brave, but when a small tear slid down her cheek she whispered to it, 'Hello, Fear,' like it was a friend she might learn from.
When she whispered back, the shadow paused and answered with a tiny puzzled sound—Maya realized the voice was not fierce but lonely.
Maya folded a scrap of box into a bright picture and held it up—then the shadow leaned in close, eyes imaginary with wonder.
Suddenly the shadow shaped itself into Maya's own silhouette—wearing a paper crown—and she blinked, surprised to see courage wearing her face.
Maya made a little crown from a box, placed it on her head, then breathed slowly and hummed a brave song until the whispers turned gentle.
That night the whispers softened into a slow hum, and Maya fell asleep with Pip tucked under her chin, feeling a new, small bravery inside her heart.
In the morning Maya set the little crown in the window like a lighthouse for her feelings and promised to greet fear and sadness with kindness next time they knocked.
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