Calla stands apart from the others, her eyes tracing the patterns of raindrops on the ground. Rainbow jackets swirl around her, but she remains a stark silhouette against the color and motion. The children’s voices rise and fall, but she listens only to the rain.

A group of classmates cluster nearby, their eyes flicking toward Calla. One girl whispers a joke, and the others giggle. Another pipes up, "Why do you always wear such creepy clothes? Are you a little vampire?" Calla pauses, her face impassive, but a quiet strength glimmers behind her gaze. She moves on, unbothered, the echoes of laughter fading behind her.

While other children clamor for the librarian’s attention, Calla is lost in her own world, her drawings awash with deep violets and midnight blues. Her solitude is not lonely—it’s a sanctuary. "In the quiet, I can hear my own thoughts," she whispers to herself, her pencil gliding across the page, creating a world where she belongs.

"Perhaps next time, you could choose something more cheerful, Calla. Why not paint flowers or rainbows like the others?" The class titters. But Calla lifts her chin, her voice calm yet unwavering. "I draw what I feel. My colors are not sad—they’re strong. Like me." The room falls silent, some faces turning thoughtful.

Children and teachers alike stop, drawn to the strange beauty of her work. Lily, younger child tugs at her sleeve, eyes wide. "Your monsters aren’t scary. They look brave. How did you make them?" For the first time, Calla smiles, her voice gentle. "I made them from the parts of me that are different. Sometimes different is what makes us strong."

Calla no longer sits alone. Her quiet confidence has become a beacon for those who feel different. As the stars blink to life, she glances up, content and at peace. What once set her apart now inspires others to embrace their own colors, no matter how dark or bright.