She holds time like something borrowed,
trading it for something she cannot live without—
a life that leaves space to create,
to build small impossible things
in the margins of everything else.

The day folds her into roles—
caretaker, driver, keeper of schedules,
artist between the cracks of responsibility,
always becoming something next
before she has finished being what she was.

And still, the world asks for more.
So she gives it what she can
until the house finally goes still.
Only then, at the edge of night,
does she step out of all of it.

Into a place without weight—
warm air, open sky,
grass moving like breath,
a world that does not ask her to hold it together.

And there, for a moment,
she becomes only herself.
The woman who built her own sky.

The forest hummed with the quiet melody of spring, a soft symphony of rustling leaves and birdsong. Beneath the emerald canopy, where shafts of golden sunlight filtered through, the air smelled of damp earth and blooming wildflowers—delicate pinks and deep purples painting the woodland floor.

Dew still clung to the mushrooms, their caps glistening like tiny enchanted lanterns, untouched by the waking world. And here, in this hidden haven, two little sprites flickered between the trees, their laughter like wind chimes in the breeze.

Perched atop a mossy rock, the elder sprite shimmered with a soft white-blue glow, their translucent form shifting like mist in the morning light. Large ears twitched at the sound of rustling leaves, and gossamer-thin wings pulsed faintly, refracting light like the surface of a still pond. Their four delicate limbs barely touched the stone as they balanced with an amused smirk. “You’ll never catch me,” they teased, their voice as weightless as the wind.

Below, their younger sibling looked up, a wisp of movement against the forest floor. Their form, slightly larger but just as luminous, rippled like moonlight on water. “Oh, we’ll see about that!” they chimed, eyes gleaming with mischief before they lunged forward, their paws making no sound against the moss.

The older sprite leapt just in time, their body a blur of shifting light as they sailed over their sibling’s outstretched limbs. The game of tag wove through the underbrush, their ghostly figures flitting between ferns and tree roots like echoes of the forest itself.

The younger sprite dashed through a patch of glowing mushrooms, their light blending with the sprite’s own as they zigzagged with sharp, precise movements. The elder spread their wings—not to fly, but to twist through the air, using the wind to propel them further from their sibling’s reach. Their laughter mingled with the soft rustling of leaves, a song known only to the trees.

There was no fear of discovery here. No need for hiding. Only the thrill of the game, the endless dance of light and movement, and the unbreakable bond between two spirits of the woodland, forever playing beneath the whispering boughs.