mythology

There are stories.

Of the woman who appears when the world turns cold.

Of silk sheets and scripture torn in tandem.

Of a mouth that tasted like memory, and a laugh that lingered like incense.

They say she doesn’t walk—she arrives.

They say her hands read skin like scripture.

They say she once made a man forget his name, but remember his purpose.

No one tells the same story twice.

But every version ends the same:

She came, she changed them, she disappeared into the night—

leaving only a warmth in the sheets and a question in the heart.

Was she real?

Or a fever dream with freckles?

They say if you call for her—softly, respectfully—

and if your intentions are clean, or at least interesting…

She might just answer.