They said the sky spoke only to those who moved softly. She was one of them — rising before the sun, walking where the mist still clung to the earth. On one such morning, at the place where the river thinned to a silver thread, she found it: a drop of something that was not water, hanging from a strand finer than any spider’s silk. It caught the first light and turned it blue, like a secret promise. She gathered it not with hands, but with breath and will, weaving it into the chain she wore at her throat. Ever after, it shimmered when choices lay before her, as though the sky itself still whispered paths unseen.
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