There is a silence in her
that does not sleep,
a seed wrapped in centuries,
soft as starlight,
fierce as forgiveness.
It was not planted.
It chose her.
Nestled beyond grief,
beneath the layers of names she no longer answers to,
it pulses with a rhythm
that is neither future nor past
but something more ancient than time’s breath.
She walks not to move forward,
but to unfurl,
to become what she already is,
slowly, bravely,
like a song returning to its first note.
She no longer seeks definition.
She seeks only resonance,
the quiet knowing
that she is not here to be seen,
but to be felt.
In the depths of her,
there is no need to bloom outward.
She blooms inward,
toward a center
the world was never meant to reach.
And in that center...
there are no words.
Only a spiral,
only a breath,
only a soft golden pulse
saying:
"You are not becoming.
You are remembering.
And what you remember
will one day flood the world in tenderness."