Muerte

Muerte, draped in an ethereal gown that flowed like the aurora's essence, was a paradox of life and death. The fabric shimmered with hues of twilight and dawn, constantly shifting, mirroring the transient nature of her being. Her countenance, a canvas of skull-like beauty, was unsettling yet captivating; smooth, bone-white contours formed the delicate architecture of her face, framing eyes that held the depth of ancient galaxies. These weren't the empty sockets of the deceased, but rather, luminous pools that pulsed with the soft glow of distant stars. She was the keeper of memories, each one a spark ignited within her gaze. In this realm, where time was but a whisper caught on the cosmic wind, she moved with a grace that defied gravity. She wove tales of tomorrow with the petals of yesterday, the fragrant remains of lives lived and loved. Around her, a celestial ballet unfolded, nebulous forms swirling in a silent dance. She presented a bouquet of ephemeral blooms, each petal a testament to fleeting existence; they were not flowers of earth, but of pure starlight, each a vessel of destinies untold, shimmering with the potential of existence. To encounter her was to transcend the mortal coil, to be swept into a journey through the tapestry of fate, a cosmic dance where love and loss pirouetted in an eternal ballet.