It’s just a small stone—a little angel girl, tucked away in a far corner, where no one will ever see it. There is no funeral, just a scattering of people who thought that they knew her, but had it all wrong. Someone has placed a rose on the grave, but it looks all out of place.

Miste Hope it reads, carved in beautiful scripted letters. Her mother cries in earnest, tears flowing fast and free. No one would guess what went on behind closed doors. No one would guess all the things that happened.

A bird twitters, a joyful song that doesn’t seem to belong. The sun filters through the trees for the first time in days; filaments of gold caressing the cloudy sky.

In a few days, moss will begin to cover the stone, and before long, you’ll be unable to read her name. Amongst the bigger brighter, adorned shrines, no one will notice this, the little girl who tried so hard to be strong.

In a few days, everyone will have forgotten.

No one will remember the little angel girl, the one who walked to school all alone.