A single impulse rises through the static air, drawn upward by a molten orange flow.
The liquid fire doesn’t consume — it transforms.
In its warmth, gravity dissolves, and form becomes resonance.
She ascends through layers of coded light, where sound and silence merge into motion.
Each spark carries a fragment of her will, a vertical line written in flame.
At 8:56 p.m., in Zone Aurora, flight becomes the purest form of language.