Fly High

Her soul burned so bright it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. She was too frail and fragile for this world, so ethereal that she left traces of herself behind on everything she touched; fine, powder-like dustings, like the fingerprints of her soul. Teeny pieces of her, scatterings of her, spread over the earth. Blowing in the wind, floating and flying and landing on those she touched the most, an ever-present memorial of the complexity that she was, had been. Of the magic that consumed her hectic soul.

But she was strong.


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