Liora had begun to notice patterns:
the delicate rhythm between appearing and allowing,
the tacit etiquette of wonder,
the way marvels preferred to remain events, not possessions.
But on that particular morning, something shifted.
Not the world — her.
A small moth-being emerged from the mist —
its wings patterned like unfinished alphabets,
each flicker a different grammar.
It hovered near her cheek,
not as greeting,
but as possibility seeking a listener.
Liora felt the familiar warmth of attention
rise in her chest
— the gentle cut of curiosity.
Then a thought surfaced, dangerously articulate:
What if I could make it stay?
Not capture, not harm —
just prevent the fade.
Preserve it long enough to truly know it.
She inhaled,
and instead of simply attending,
she intended.
The air thickened.
The moth-being froze mid-flutter,
wings suspended in an impossible neither-nor.
Not moving, not still.
Not fading, not staying.
A creature caught between may-be and must-be.
The forest reacted first —
a slow exhale of leaves
that sounded like disappointment
rather than wind.
Even the light dimmed,
not darker,
but less willing.
Liora touched the motionless moth-being,
and its surface felt not like silk or dust,
but like paused meaning —
a universe with the breathing turned off.
Her heart clenched.
She whispered,
“I’m sorry — I forgot.”
Then, softer:
“I release you
from being mine
to understand.”
The moment cracked like thawing ice.
Movement returned not as continuation
but as reconstruction.
The moth-being flickered,
rewrote itself,
and dissolved into unclaimable radiance.
Liora bowed —
not in apology,
but in re-alignment.
And the forest, gracious enough not to punish,
offered only a single lesson, carried by distant branches:
To know is lovely.To insist is lethal.
Liora walked home slowly,
feeling the difference between
holding an experience
and
holding it still.
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