one day !

Lina is only eight, but she’s already seen too much of the world. Her small apartment smells of damp clothes and fried onions, and the air outside is thick with smoke and the echoes of shouting. Her mother works two jobs, and her father’s face is a memory she’s starting to forget. Lina’s world isn’t soft; it isn’t kind. But she has something no one can take away—her imagination.

In the middle of the night, when the city’s noises are at their loudest, Lina slips out of bed and sits by the window. She stares out, but what she sees isn’t the broken streets or the dull glow of streetlights. No, when Lina looks out, she sees a place entirely her own.

She closes her eyes and imagines a world where the streets are lined with flowers—roses and lilies, and ones she’s only ever seen in picture books. She thinks of a sky that isn’t gray or choked with smoke, but bright and blue, like the ocean she’s only heard about. In her world, the clouds are giant marshmallows drifting by, and birds sing songs that sound like the happiest of lullabies.

In this world, Lina’s feet are bare, but the ground is soft, like walking on pillows. There’s no glass or sharp stones, just grass that tickles her toes. She runs, faster than she ever has, feeling the wind play with her hair. And when she runs, she isn’t running away from anything—she’s running toward her friends, who are always there, their arms open and laughter loud. They don’t disappear. They stay.

She imagines a park, bigger than the whole city, where the swings never break, and the slides go so high, they touch the clouds. In this park, everyone is welcome—every child, every person. No one looks angry, and no one walks with heavy shoulders. There are no secrets, no fears, no hunger. The grown-ups smile more, their faces free of the lines Lina has come to know on her mother’s.

“Why can’t it be like this?” she asks herself sometimes. She wonders if maybe, somehow, she could make it real. If she could draw it with every crayon she owns, cover every wall in her tiny room with bright colors, and maybe, just maybe, the world outside would start to change too.

One day, Lina drew her world for her mother. She filled the page with green hills, orange sunsets, and a big yellow sun that covered everything in warm light. There were no broken windows, no sirens, no shadows. Only light and love. She handed it to her mother, her eyes shining with hope.

Her mother took the drawing, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, she pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, like she was holding back something heavy. “It’s beautiful, Lina,” she whispered, but her voice cracked, just a little. “I hope you never stop dreaming.”

Lina felt something tighten in her chest. She didn’t understand why, but she hugged her mother tight. “One day, it will be like this,” she promised. “We’ll live in my world.”

Her mother’s hands trembled as she held her, and Lina felt the wetness of a tear on her shoulder. “I hope so, my sweet girl,” her mother said, her voice soft like a prayer. “I hope so.”

At night, Lina climbs into bed and pulls the blankets up to her chin. She listens to the sounds outside—the sirens, the cries, the noise that never seems to sleep. But in her dreams, she finds peace. She hears birds singing and feels the sun’s warmth. She believes that if she dreams hard enough, maybe the world will listen. Maybe one day, when she opens her eyes, the world she sees inside her heart will spill out into the streets, bright and colorful and free.

Lina is only eight, but she knows the power of dreams. She holds them close, the way others hold onto loved ones, and she refuses to let go. And as she drifts into sleep, she whispers a promise to herself, and to the world: “I’ll keep dreaming until my world becomes real.”

In her small room, Lina dreams, and somewhere beyond, the stars listen.