Estrella

I smooth my hands over the fabric of my soft, golden coronation dress, shot through with strands of color. Purple for the sky at night. Rich brown for the sand of the desert beyond our little oasis. Gray for Father’s eyes. Red for the heart of our people.

The heart I hold in my cold hands.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mother says.

I force a smile and nod. Father’s funeral is already over. As always, Yana’s words were beautiful. Between Father’s ...