She never followed paths. Paths bled into patterns and patterns were prisons.
So she made mazes.
Not to trap,
but to remind the stars that not all orbits circle something deserving.
Her existence refused destination.
Each breath a curve away from definition.
Each thought a mirror breaking the concept of straight.
She bent the air just by being,
and the air never dared to ask why.
Inside her, the laws whispered but were not obeyed.
They pleaded. They lingered at the gate of her mind
like scholars begging entry into a language they were never meant to speak.
She did not escape the world.
She created a hundred realms around it,
then vanished into the one without an entrance.
There were no maps. Only murmurs. No lines.
Only pulses,
of refusal shaped as rhythm.
Every turn of her was a rejection of conclusion.
Every fragment of her was a corridor without consent.
The walls shifted each time you tried to name her.
And she,
The maze itself,
smiled softly as she wandered.
Not lost. Not found.
But altered.