Tiny Changes

She knows she won't live forever.
None of us do.
Even the loud ones.
Even the bright.

But she hopes—
in the marrow-deep way
that isn’t loud,
but never lets go—
that when she goes,
something good will stay.

A softness.
A shift.
A tiny change.

She won’t build monuments.
She doesn’t want to.
She wants to be the hand
that steadies a stranger.
The laugh that cuts through
someone’s worst day.
The reason a friend
didn’t give up.

She wants to make
tiny changes to Earth.

The kind you can’t photograph.
But feel
when the dark starts whispering again,
and you remember her voice—
and for one breath,
you believe in the light.

Let the world forget her name.
Just don’t forget
the warmth she left
in her wake.

That’s all she wanted.

That was always
enough.