The Light Does Not Recoil From You

The morning light hits your face and you pull your sleeves down, convinced that the rot inside you is contagious. You flinch when a hand reaches out, certain that your touch will transfer the damage to anyone brave enough to get close.

But the light does not recoil from what it touches — it heals it. There was a woman who bled for twelve years, untouchable by the law, certain she would defile the crowd.

She reached out anyway. And when she touched the edge of his cloak, the power did not flow from her to him; it flowed from him to her.

He turned and called her Daughter. Your skin is not a hazard.

The thing you are trying to protect them from is already gone. You are safe to hold.