Lumi

She stands like a memory caught between ink and dream, with skin pale as parchment, kissed by the hush of winter sun. From the shadows of her raven hair, red blossoms unfurl—petals whispering secrets only the wind and silence can hold.

Her gaze drifts past the edge of the world, not longing, not regret—just stillness, as if she’s grown from the page itself, roots winding through veins, blooming where sorrow once slept.

The flowers do not decorate her— they become her. A quiet rebellion of beauty blooming in cracks no one thought to look at closely. She is soft, and she is unbreakable.

Paint splashes like a heartbeat held too long— a story unfinished, but perfect in its pause.