It started at the edges, the way all honest things do. A single leaf, small and waxy, tucked behind her ear like a secret she hadn't told yet. She brushed it away. It grew back. Then another, curling at her temple, then a third unfurling along the nape
They told her that stillness was a kind of rest. She tried to believe them. So she learned to stand without shifting, to let the air move instead of her. The world passed in small gestures. Wind through her hair. Light brushing her cheek. The low hum of something distant
She closed her eyes the way some people close doors. Not to shut anything out, but to finally stop holding them open. The blue behind her was not sky. It was not water. It was the color that comes when a person stops performing stillness and simply becomes still. It
A quiet figure carries the moon not as a destination, but as a companion; marked by travel, shaped by cycles, and grounded in stillness.
She stands before a hovering light, close enough to feel seen but not consumed. Gold gathers above her, not a crown, but a question. This piece explores attention, restraint, and the quiet moment before meaning arrives, when listening becomes its own form of authority.