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The prince’s grand ball shimmered on the horizon, a beacon of hope for Cinderella—until she glanced at her hands, roughened by years of scrubbing floors and hauling firewood. Her fairy godmother’s wand spun a gown from starlight and a carriage from a pumpkin, but even magic couldn’t erase the marks of her labor. "The heart sees deeper than eyes," the godmother mused, plucking a pearlescent lily from the air, its petals glistening with iridescent sap. "Rub its nectar into your skin—it won’t last beyond midnight, but it’ll mirror the courage you carry." Cinderella obeyed, the flower’s essence softening her palms into fleeting silk. As she danced with the prince that night, her laughter rang brighter than any enchantment, her hands clasping his not as a flawless illusion, but as a story she wore proudly—one he longed to hear.
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