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She stands still — not lost, but listening.

In the cathedral of trees, where the morning breathes through branches, a girl, small as a question, opens her soul to the sky.

There are no adults here. No instructions. Just roots, leaves, and light filtering like memory.

She does not pray. She receives.

Every beam of sunlight is a whisper. Every shadow is a hand not quite touching her cheek.

This is not a fairytale. This is the moment before stories form. When wonder is not yet words, but still a feeling.

She wears no armor — just socks, shoes, a skirt, and a silence that belongs to eternity.

This image is not childhood. It is initiation.