The woman moved through life, her silhouette shifting. She wore her past like a cloak, its weight both anchor and compass. The ravens cawed, their voices echoing through her veins. They knew her secrets—the broken promises, the love lost, the scars that mapped her skin.
And yet, she reached for the future. Her fingers brushed against the canvas of tomorrows. The paper birds which she's made swirled, their wings brushing her cheeks. Each flutter carried a fragment of redemption—a chance to rewrite the script, to mend the frayed edges of her soul.