Shayra stood on a star. It was ice-pink with lavender roses cut out along the edges. That she was suspended in air didn't matter because the star was solid. In that whole expanse of glaucuous blue-grey tints, that star was her home - her little step of almostness that held her up. She played with the little sun in her pocket - her thumbnails zinged. Then she knelt and traced one of the lavender roses with her warm fingers. The rose softened a little, a petal melted a little. A drop of blue with periwinkle and lapis swirls trickled to the edge of the star and fell. It was time to return.
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