Upon the polished summit of what the world used to be, a moth-child settled down to meditate. Her wings, lace burnt by the most rancid moon, barely trembled over the ivory bone. She sought no soul, not even a tear; only the quiet promise that Death always keeps: stillness. Her gaze was the sweet void of a music box that has lost its melody. And the spider, her eight-legged friend of infinite patience, watched over her eyelid. Both waited. Not for the dawn, but for the soft, inevitable crumbling of all things. They were home
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Blender, dazstudio, photoshop, NO AI
model Star for Genesis 3
Fabiana fairy wings