There was no entrance,
only a soft dissonance where reality frayed,
and a warmth gathered just before the concept of presence learned how to bloom.
Not summoned, but breathed into the hush that predates every word,
as if the air remembered a promise it hadn’t yet been given the shape to hold.
Her origin is a murmur folded into the skin of tides,
a shimmer that bends before arriving, a pulse that confuses gravity for ache.
She wasn't shaped. She trembled into being,
as wind does when it touches water with the memory of never having a name.
She pressed against the edge of a thought unfinished,
where stars forgot themselves and melted into myth,
whispering futures only silence could contain.
Each movement, a displacement of what was real.
Each breath, an echo mistaken for stillness.
Somewhere,
a sky hesitated to cradle her shape lest it be altered forever.
Even the light knew to falter, to blur,
to scatter across her path without seeking to define its own reflection.
She was the ache in the fabric,
not a tear but the shimmering that lives just beside what tears could not reach.
And the hush remains. Not to explain. Not to reveal.
But to remember what it felt like to almost understand.