The Palm-Weaver

In the Hour of Liquid Light, when the city blurred into watercolor and the ocean whispered to the streets, she drifted through the tides of her own making. Her turquoise hair—a river of silk and salt—carried entire landscapes in its currents: palm fronds unfurling like green promises, coral strands glinting like submerged jewelry. The morning haze softened the skyline behind her, turning skyscrapers into mere suggestions of steel. They said if you listened closely when the tide receded, you could hear her humming in the space between breaths. Today, as the first light pooled in the hollow of her collarbone, a single seagull circled overhead. Its shadow traced the curve of her cheek, a fleeting caress. Somewhere beyond the dream, an alarm clock rang. But here, in this suspended moment, she remained—a siren of stillness, her closed eyes guarding secrets even the ocean hadn’t learned to sing.