When the Forgotten One-Eyed Luna Rises Chapter 10

When the Forgotten One-Eyed Luna Rises Chapter 10

During my sophomore year, I received the Royal Warrior Program Scholarship and was invited to join the Royal Warrior Program.

When Mrs. Holt posted the list outside her office, many students gathered around to look.

Someone turned around and shouted, “Daisy, you’re at the top!”

I walked over.

My name was at the very top.

I stared at it for a while. Suddenly, I remembered the first time I had won an award as a child.

I had run home holding my certificate, wanting to show Mom. But she had been brushing Skylar’s hair and

only glanced at it briefly.

“Daisy is amazing. Just put it on the table for now.”

That certificate was later soaked by a teacup. The corners became wrinkled and damaged.

Back then, I had felt hurt for a very long time.

Now, standing among my classmates and hearing them congratulate me, I didn’t feel like crying anymore.

I simply took a photo of the scholarship notification, saved it in my album, and named it:

[Mine.]

After that, whenever I had free time, I continued working on the volunteer project.

I traveled with the team to different packs and different places, helping children with visual impairments

practice campus routes.

I taught teachers how to adjust seating arrangements and lighting. I also helped parents learn how to

communicate with their children better.

Once, after attending one of our lectures, a mother cried.

She said, “I’m always afraid my child won’t have a good future, so I can’t help making every decision for

them.”

I looked at her and said softly, “You can protect them, but don’t live their life for them.”

After saying those words, I froze for a moment.

Mrs. Holt looked at me but didn’t interrupt.

After the event ended, she asked me to write the project summary, “Daisy, you’re really suited for this.”

I asked why.

She smiled slightly, “Because you know exactly where people are being ignored.”

Later, the school newspaper interviewed me.

The headline was written in large letters:

[The Person Who Walked Out of Darkness Can Also Become Someone Else’s Light.]

After the interview was published, I received many messages.

Some people said they felt encouraged.

Some said they finally understood that they weren’t a burden.

I read them one by one.

When I closed the page, I noticed a new email in my inbox.

It was from Mom.

She said she had seen me in the school newspaper. She said I had grown up and become different.

The last line read: [Daisy, Mom regrets everything.]

I stared at it for a long time. But I didn’t reply.

Her regret was real. The pain she caused was also real. Those two things could exist at the same time.

I no longer needed forgiveness to prove that I was kind.

Later, Dad sold the piano that Skylar had destroyed.

I heard that it didn’t sell for much.

He donated the money to a foundation for visually impaired children.

The donor name was mine.

When the foundation contacted me to confirm it, I only said,

“Please change it to anonymous.”

The staff member asked, “Are you sure?”

I said yes.

That wasn’t my kindness. And it wasn’t my reconciliation with them.

I didn’t want to accept anyone’s gratitude on behalf of my family anymore.

Logan also sent me a letter.

A thick stack of pages.

Inside were copies of my childhood report cards and certificates.

He wrote that when he cleaned out the old room, he finally discovered something.

All those years, every single one of my report cards had been filled with A+ grades.

And every signature in the parent section had been written by me, imitating Mom’s handwriting.

He apologized. He said that he was supposed to be my older brother, but he had never truly protected me.

I placed the letter in a drawer.

I didn’t tear it up. But I didn’t reply either.

Some apologies didn’t need an answer. Because even if I responded, they wouldn’t make the past any lighter.

When I was ten years old, they left me in the darkness.

When I was eighteen, I walked out of it alone.

And now, I finally understood. A person with one less eye could still see a long road ahead.

A person with one less piece of family could still live a complete life.

I would never look back again.

Because there was light ahead.

And I was already standing in it.