The village never named her.
Not from cruelty—but fear.
Fear of claiming what did not belong to the old myths. Fear of touching something that had not been written.
In a world shaped by Codices and signatures, to be without a myth was not freedom—it was danger. An opening. A wound. Something wild that could not be archived.
And yet she thrived.
Not in praise. Not in power. But in presence.
She moved like an absence that remembered how to take form. Her silence was not blankness—it was a mirror no one dared look too long into. When she spoke—rarely—things shifted. Not dramatically. Just enough. A cloud might stall. A weeping stone might pause. A goat might birth twins, though it had been barren the day before.
They whispered of her.
"She walks like the first question."
"She drinks with both hands."
"She is the page we forgot to fear."
But she heard none of it. Or perhaps she did—but only with the part of her that didn't mind being misunderstood.
