Her name was Jory.
She was only seven years old…
but she believed colors could smile.
Every morning, she would sit near the window,
holding her small box of crayons like a treasure.
Red for love.
Blue for calm.
Yellow for the sun she loved so much.
She didn't know much about the world…
but she knew how to draw it the way she wished it could be.
Peaceful.
Beautiful.
Safe.
Her father used to watch her quietly,
his tired eyes softening for a moment.
"Why do you draw so much?" he once asked.
Jory smiled without looking up.
"Because colors don't hurt people."
That morning… everything changed.
At exactly 6:00 AM,
the sky was no longer blue.
Thin white lines cut across it.
The ground trembled.
Windows shook.
And the sound…
It was louder than anything she had ever heard.
Jory froze.
Her crayon slipped from her fingers.
For a moment,
she didn't understand what was happening.
Then she looked at her father.
And for the first time…
she saw fear in his eyes.
"Baba… what is that?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He just pulled her close.
Very close.
As if his arms could protect her from everything.
But Jory kept looking at the sky.
Those white lines…
They weren't drawings.
They were real.
And they were falling.
That day,
Jory stopped drawing the sky the way it was.
She started drawing it the way she wished it could be.
And she never stopped.