They stretched out, twisting and twining—infinite—like the roots and branches of a great tree.
“Which is my destiny,” she whispered to the moon, “which path is for me?”
The stars knew well her fears, hopes, wishes and dreams while the moon was a sleepy, indifferent listener. If she’d only looked to them, perhaps she would have seen her triumphant tale, written there, as clear as a cold winter night sky.
But not knowing who she would be did not stop her from becoming a hero.