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Upon the stone-cold earth she sat,

where winds whispered secrets to hurried feet.

No banner of land upon her back,

no mark of time upon her robe,

and yet, I knew her.

For her eyes were not of this world alone,

but of the space between,

where truths are neither spoken nor concealed,

but simply are.

She called to me—not in voice,

but in knowing.

A gift, she said, nothing more,

a jest, she claimed, no price to pay.

And yet, the cold wrapped around her shoulders,

and I knew that jest is never worth the frost.

So I surrendered.

She took my hand as one takes a fragile thing,

where calluses speak of toil,

and scars whisper of folly.

She traced the lines not as a thief,

but as a mourner at the tomb of untold days.

Her gaze grew heavy,

and I braced for the omen,

the ruin,

the shadow lurking beyond the bend.

But she spoke not of storms nor sorrow,

nor the fall of all I hold dear.

No, her words were softer, crueler.

“Your life will stay the same.”

And she let me go.

No more did her eyes hold me,

no longer did they pierce my marrow.

She turned away, back to the world beyond sight,

leaving me to the weight of her gift.

I walked among abundance,

filled my hands with things forgotten.

The world spun as it always had,

but I was unmoored.

For there is no fate more dreadful

than the stillness of an unchanged soul.

And she had seen it in me—

the fear I had not dared name.

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