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Summary
There are countless ways to remember. They say even a wish is a kind of request, and so you ask your memories to linger—to stay a little longer inside your head—hoping those shadows might become eternal. But, like stars that burn themselves out after granting the prayers of humankind, everything has a limit. Memory, especially. Unfortunately.
Do not mourn that truth, for there is no joy to be found in remembering too much.
Grief does not come to break you, nor to drag you into the depths. It arrives to remind you—to remind you of what once mattered, of what was cherished, of the love and moments that shaped the person you are now. Sorrows are not only weights; they are signposts, urging you to remember that even pain is proof of connection, of having lived and cared deeply.
The world is still far too vast to explore alone, so take the hand of a new northern star and step forward. Ursa Minor will always wait in the night sky, its fragile tail guiding you toward its mother, toward a wider universe, toward a future whose shape you cannot yet see.
And when you arrive there, you will find not the memories you lost, but the memories still waiting to be made.