She sits on the edge of silence
Where the night hums in whispers
Where shadows cling to lace and longing

The wind tugs at her curls
Soft tendrils of a dream unspoken
As the moon, swollen with secrets
Watches without judgment

A gnarled branch reaches for her
Barren and knowing
Its fingers curled in sympathy
Or perhaps warning

Her hands rest in stillness
Palms open to the weight of memory
The breath of the past pressing against her ribs

She does not cry
She does not move
She only listens
To the hush of the dark
To the echo of what once was
To the quiet ache of being