Loëlia

The fields lie quiet beneath a dimming sky, their gold deepened into burnished amber as dusk settles like a closing eyelid. A long feast table stands at the edge of the cornfield, the white cloth stirring in a cold breeze that smells of turning earth. Ripened fruits, steaming broth, and a perfectly prepared bird wait untouched, arranged with the gravity of an ancient rite. At the head of the table stands a lone figure crowned in dried grain, her hair glowing faintly against the gathering dusk. She watches the horizon with the stillness of a statue, as though guarding the fragile seam between abundance and the long dark to come. The air around her is warm, but with a lingering undertone — like the final breath of summer clinging to autumn’s bones. As you draw closer, her gaze lifts. It is not welcoming nor rejecting, but knowing—an invitation to step into something older than celebration, older than feasting. A ritual of gratitude whispered through generations, waiting for you to take your place at the table.