Where the Sky Remembers Her

She stands at the edge of the marsh, where the reeds hum old lullabies and the dusk wears silver like memory. In her basket: roots that dream, herbs that listen, and stories pressed into petals.
The water does not reflect her face—it shows the women who walked before her, glowing in starlit skin, their eyes full of beginnings.
She touches the surface gently, and the sky ripples in response—constellations blooming into dancers, fireflies circling like whispered prayers.
Here, between breath and ritual, she is not alone.
She is known.
She is remembered.