They say if you follow the moonlight through the veil of elder trees, past the foxglove bend and the sleeping mushrooms, you may find her.
She walks barefoot on petals and dew, her gown spun from cobweb silk and dusk. Wings shimmer with the sheen of forgotten rain, and a crown of violets rests in her chestnut curls. She does not speak—she never has—but the grove itself listens when she moves. Even the fireflies hush their flicker.
Tonight, she dances beneath the lantern bough where no flame ever dies and no path ever stays the same. She dances for the lost things—wishes never made, songs never sung, dreams never woken from. The forest remembers them all, and so does she.
If you come with a kind heart and quiet thoughts, you might be allowed to watch.
But if your soul carries noise, or sharpness, or want…
The lanterns will wink out, and the path will vanish, and you’ll find yourself alone again—just a patch of earth, a faint scent of violets, and a memory you can’t quite explain.
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