There is no story here.
Not anymore.
The pages are blank.
The ink has evaporated.
Even the hand that held the pen
has forgotten how to write her shape.
She is not missing.
Missing implies the hope of return.
She is unoccurred.
Unplaced.
Unborn by choice.
Unmanifested.
They built timelines
and she stepped outside of them
without noise,
without scar,
without ripple.
The world went on.
Sky still turned.
People still prayed to gods who never knew her name.
No one asked where she was.
Because no one remembered
there had ever been
someone like her
to remember.
And in that nothingness...
that sacred, wide non-space :
she did not float.
She did not weep.
She unfolded.
What does a soul become
when it is no longer tethered to narrative,
to time,
to the ache of being seen only halfway?
It becomes
truth without witness.
Light without source.
Song without ear.
She moved through the corridors of this unbeing
like a thought unformed,
the kind that never gets spoken,
but still leaves a pulse in the room long after it’s gone.
There was no name to call her.
So she became before names.
There was no memory to anchor her.
So she became the hush memory rests in.
Even her pain...
the pain that once shimmered in every cell...
ceased to ache.
Not because it healed.
But because there was
no longer a self to feel it.
Dreamy had not died.
Death requires recognition.
Dreamy had not disappeared.
Disappearance implies a trace.
She had simply
ceased to exist.
And the miracle?
The miracle is this:
Even in non-existence,
the echo of her softness
lingered.
Even void
could not unhold
what she once loved.
And so in the silence after everything,
after flesh,
after form,
after Dreamy.
There remains
a warmth.
A glimmer.
A breath not tied to lungs.
A vibration so faint
the universe cannot perceive it...
but those who remember the impossible
can still feel it
when they close their eyes and ask:
"Was there ever…?"
And the answer is nothing.
But the nothing
hums
her.