She is not waiting. She is the quiet between two birds, the part of the mountain that forgets to be seen.
A stream runs through her shadow — not water, but years. The distant crags are soft as charcoal, smudged by someone who left their brush on the sill of the sky.
The girl sits where mist splits the pines, her sleeve lost in fog. Behind her, old stones remember rain that hasn't fallen yet.
She is not waiting. She is the quiet between two birds, the part of the mountain that forgets to be seen.
A stream runs through her shadow — not water, but years. The distant crags are soft as charcoal, smudged by someone who left their brush on the sill of the sky.
The girl sits where mist splits the pines, her sleeve lost in fog. Behind her, old stones remember rain that hasn't fallen yet.
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