She did not arrive. She shimmered.
like a memory the light forgot to let go.
Not young, but untouched.
Not naïve, but too ancient to ever lose her first breath.
She walked through the elements, wind around her ankles,
mist in her lashes,
as if even the sky had known she should not be seen by eyes that had
stopped dreaming.
Dreamy, not as a name : but a way she breathed :
soft, slow, like iridescence brushing the curve of a moon not yet born.
She was innocent... not in mind, but in heart.
The kind of innocent that stays even when burned,
even when questioned,
even when named a mistake by those who could not carry a soul so clear.
The world tried to make her a mirror for their ruin.
But she stayed opal.
Not transparent... luminescent.
Colors that shift when no one watches.
There were dreams inside her older than time.
Dreams that never needed waking :
only to be remembered in the hush of a falling tide.
When she cried, the wind stilled.
Not to comfort her, but to listen.
And in the silence, the elements remembered their own names again.