Minya twisted her dark curls around her finger nervously. She had spent weeks agonizing over her entry to the Royal Academy of Art, adding undertones and shading to her painting The Lady and Her Mother. The canvas was almost as tall as her, and twice as wide. It was of a young woman in a wedding dress staring at a mirror, while another woman-her mother- stood behind, brushing her hair. Minya had spent days on the bride's hair alone, perfecting the way her dark tresses spilled over her shoulders, giving a contrast to the lace and pearls adorning the dress's bodice. Transporting it, Minya had spared no expense. She had hired a carriage with what little money she'd scraped together from her work at the tavern, and had wrapped the whole thing in a thick canvas to protect it. When she hadn't been working on it, Minya had left it in a dark room to prevent sun damage. The painting was her last bit of hope blossomed as a portrait. The painting was her last bit of hope, displayed in brilliant colors of gold, silver, chestnut brown, and green, just some of the hundreds of colors and emotions the painting conveyed. In the days before she submitted it, Minya had looked over the painting every single day, searching for any flaw needing fixing. Now, it was finally time to let others see her art. She took a deep breath, and knocked on the academy's polished mahogany door. They let her in. As Minya brought it in, she couldn't help but be nervous. Dozens of other artists were entering the competition. Famous ones, whose names were displayed in the stars, and smaller ones, like her, who struggled to get even a scrap of recognition. This was her chance to be put among them in the sky 
 
"Um... ex-excuse me, sir. Wou-would you happen to know where the submission desk for the painters is?" 
Minya asked a tidy looking man dressed in a brown suit. He turned around and snapped, "You'll find it past the Gemini Wing, in Peabody Hall. There's a man you can give your painting to." Then he turned back around. Minya thanked him, and headed to Peabody Hall. A bored looking man stood behind the large oak desk. He treated her dismissively, sticking her painting in a storage area behind his desk. Minya walked away nervous, yet relieved. She had done it. She had submitted her beauty. Now all that was left was to wait. Minya wandered around the museum, the art watching her. Despite her flurrying thoughts, she couldn't help but admire them. The sculptures, ivory and marble, silk spun from stone. The paintings, hearts splashed on paper. The embroideries, the way thread danced in the wind. It was all so beautiful. She stopped before a bust of a young man. He had a slender frame and short curls. His shepherd cane lay on his thighs as his eyes reached out towards some unknown being. His white mouth was open, as if calling a name. What was he thinking about, Minya could only wonder. A great scream tore her out of the daydream though- the paintings were on fire! Minya raced to the scene, followed by a crowd of other contestants. All of them were scrambling to save their painting. By the time Minya found hers though, only a scrap of the canvas was left. Just one of the mother's eyes hadn't gone up in flames. Minya kissed that small sliver, her hands trembling, before tucking it in her dress pocket carefully. Why did this happen? Where was their compensation? Who is to take the blame? A horde of people who had lost their masterpieces chanted this message. The Academy's clerks were trying to reason with them, but they wouldn't have it. The painters were angry, and it had to be someone's fault. Then, from an office on the third floor, a sleek looking man emerged. 
"Gentlemen, ladies, fellow artists," he sighed silkily to the crowd, his voice soft and slimy. 
"I deeply apologize for this horrid, horrid accident. But do allow me to explain how this happened: a foolish clerk spilled an oil casket on the paintings, a lamp fell- and the rest is history. I assure you, he will be fired. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about the lost paintings. I propose you all go back to your homes and make another. Good day!" And with that, the door slammed shut. Minya wanted to scream. That man didn't know about the love she had for that painting, the courage she had to find to give it up, the trust that was broken. Instead, she just walked away. Because rage is useless when you're poor and pitiful and powerless. Small tears dribbled down her cheeks as she walked toward her cramped, rented carriage. She wiped them away. Minya wouldn't let her pride be burned down too. As she rode back home, Minya thought. "So this is why they all said to give up. This is why everyone said I shouldn't waste my life on art. This is why they said it was useless." Then she realized, No, she said, I'm not painting for money. I'm not doing this for recognition. I'm making art because it is beautiful and I love it. Who cares about money? Who cares about fame? I have all I need. My life, is enough. I, I don't need more. I can keep painting, keep doing this. One painting doesn't matter. 
 
Over the course of the next few weeks, Minya managed to convince herself of the lie. Because deep down, it did matter. It mattered that her time and energy had been dismissed. It mattered that people considered her art- and her, too- as less valuable, less important than somebody else. It mattered that everybody thought she was worthless. But to protect her heart, Minya convinced herself that it was all stupid, that she was just being dramatic when her concerns and dreams were dismissed. That it happened to everybody. That she was just as loved as everyone else. She wasn't, though. And Minya wasn't fine. No one would ever know, not until the day she was painting a little parakeet and chose to fly away with the birds.