Not your kindness.
Something smaller.
Softer.
The part of you that still believed powerful people might listen if only the truth was beautiful enough.
You are Citlali Morningstar, twelve years old, born on a reservation in Arizona, raised between desert wind, old songs, and your grandmother Tomasa’s hands. Those hands had gathered plants before sunrise. Those hands had cooled fevers. Those hands had held yours when she taught you that healing was never only about medicine.
