Alex touched her elbow. “Welcome to the festival,” they said.

Marisol swallowed. “Is it that obvious?”

“What do you wish for?” Marisol asked, her voice small.

Marisol didn’t feel like an impostor anymore. She felt like a note in a chord—small, but necessary. She had spent so long trying to fit into a world that wasn’t built for her. But here, in this makeshift sanctuary of paper and light, the world had been rebuilt. And in it, she was not just tolerated. She was seen. She was held. She was home.