𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ🎀🪞🩰🦢🕯️𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ🎀🪞🩰🦢🕯️
𓂃˖˳·˖ The first time I saw her, she was sketching something in the margins of a leather-bound notebook, sitting beneath a willow tree on the edge of the school garden. Her dress was the color of dusty mint, her shoes ballet-flat and scuffed like they had danced across more than just classrooms.
🎀 "You're the new girl," she said without looking up, her voice soft, like petals brushing a page. "I'm Skye. Skye Tanberry."
🪞 I nodded, unsure how she knew, but somehow unsurprised that she did. Her energy shimmered like something out of another time.
🩰 “This place is full of echoes,” she said, finally meeting my eyes. “Of stories. You’ll fit in — especially if you like listening.”
🕯️ She handed me a pressed flower folded inside a wax-paper envelope. "For your diary. You do keep one, don’t you?"
🦢 The willow above us swayed gently in the wind, and somewhere far off, I could hear laughter. Hers? Mine? A memory yet to be made?
𓂃˖˳·˖ And just like that, I knew I’d stumbled into something magical — not loud magic, but the kind that rustles pages and lingers in lace and teacups.
(мαкє тнιѕ ƒαмσυѕ яαнннн (ρℓz ρℓz ρℓz נσιη тнє ¢нσ¢σℓαтє вσχ gιяℓѕ ƒαη∂σм ι ωσυℓ∂ αρρяє¢ιαтє ιт!!) >:3