Monarch Queen

You wander into the ruins of a city swallowed by wildflowers and creeping ivy — a place locals say belongs to the Silent Garden, where time no longer moves. In the heart of it, amid the towering blooms and whispering vines, you find her — the woman with monarch butterflies in her hair and eyes that seem to remember every creature that ever lived. She looks like a being caught between nature and dream. Her presence feels both regal and feral — a queen of wild gardens that have long reclaimed forgotten cities. She wears a dark, vine-embroidered coat that clings to her like living bark, with tendrils curling up from the fabric as though the garment itself were alive. Her crown is woven from moss, flowers, and monarch butterflies, their wings trembling faintly in the light. Her skin is pale, her eyes a storm of amber and dusk, as if she’s seen the rise and fall of countless ages. Around her, birds and butterflies gather — not in fear, but in reverence. She doesn’t look mortal. She looks like the spirit of autumn given human form — beautiful, melancholy, and endlessly ancient. She speaks softly, her voice carrying the rustle of leaves and the hum of wings: "You’ve come too soon. The world isn’t ready to wake yet." But when a butterfly lands on your hand and refuses to leave, you realize that you might be in danger.