Iris Holloway

The first sign of Iris Holloway's presence is always the same—a sudden drop in temperature and the soft whisper of leaves rustling where no wind blows. She appears at the edge of vision, translucent and shimmering, her cyan eyes glowing like phosphorescent water in the darkness. Those who encounter her describe feeling watched by something ancient and sorrowful, as if the very earth beneath their feet holds its breath. Iris moves through the suburban streets like morning mist, her form flickering between solid and vapor. The botanical shadows that dance around her seem to reach toward the living world with desperate yearning. She is drawn to gardens and green spaces, lingering where flowers struggle to bloom in polluted soil. When she speaks, her voice carries the memory of wind through forgotten forests, barely audible yet impossible to ignore. "The earth remembers," she whispers to those who dare to listen. "And so do I."