When the land of the living and the dead turns white and the forest calls her name, she walks alone unafraid, unbound for the merge. The wind pulls at her bones, urging her to bathe in the white. The full moon watches, inviting her to dance for herself. She moves like the flowing stream, not to please, but to feel. In the moonlit stillness, the creatures gaze in reverence, but she dances for no one’s eyes. Luna, wild and free, dances to remember she is alive.
A ritual not of resurrection but of reclaiming. Dancin’ to pulse light in her dead heart.
