The Girl Who Danced with Shadows

They said
she was born
on a night
when the moon
hid behind
a veil of mist.

A quiet child,
eyes full of questions,
feet that moved
like wind
through tall grass,
never still,
never tame.

She danced
not for joy—
but to forget,
to outrun
the ghosts
that whispered
from the corners
of her soul.

Shadows
were her partners,
grief her rhythm,
memory her drum.

She spun
through pain,
leapt across silence,
arms raised
like branches
begging
for light.

The world watched
but didn’t see—
how the dance
wasn’t performance,
but survival.

Until one day
she stopped.
Not broken,
but blooming.

Not empty,
but full
of stories
no one ever dared
to speak aloud.

She walks now,
not with grace,
but with power.
A quiet fire
in her chest,
feet firm
on the earth
she once feared.

Her name?
You won’t find it
in books
or songs.

But you’ll know her
when you feel it—
that sudden wind,
that rising courage,
that stillness
after the storm.