She stands at the window when the world forgets to move,
the glass streaked with rain and smoke,
her hands tracing patterns—slow and deliberate—
like she’s searching for something
no one else can see.

The room holds its breath,
watching her slip further into herself,
further into the quiet place
where no one can follow.
She doesn’t hear when they call her name, they say,
doesn’t she see when we reach out.
She’s somewhere else—
somewhere the light bends,
where time softens like old fabric.

She talks to angels.
It isn’t a prayer; it isn’t pleading.
It’s a conversation without a beginning,
a murmur that drifts into the air
and never lands.
She whispers as if she knows their names—
as if they are friends,
as if they’ve always been there
waiting on the edge of her breath.

When you see her walk,
barefoot on the dew-soaked grass,
you wonder if she’s still of this earth,
or if her body has become something borrowed—
something caught between realms.
Her steps leave no mark.
Her shadow is thin against the morning mist,
folding itself neatly into the places
where sunlight refuses to go.

“She’s always been this way,” they say.
“Always somewhere else, even as a child.”
And I imagine her then—
knees tucked to her chest in the dark,
her small voice whispering
to the soft space above her bed.
What did they tell her then, those angels?
What truths did they fold into her hands?
Did they promise her the weight of the world
could be lifted
if she only learned to listen?

She talks to angels,
and they leave her with quiet hands,
the kind of hands that never shake,
that hold sadness like water—
without spilling, without breaking.
She carries it all.
You can see it in the way...