A fairy doesn’t arrive with noise.
She slips in through the quiet—
between a breath and a thought,
where the world softens its edges.
She wears no crown you can hold,
only light that remembers her name.
Dust follows where she wanders,
not to be seen—
but to remind.
She lives in the almost—
almost dreams,
almost courage,
almost the moment you choose to believe again.
Her wings are not for escape,
but for return—
to the part of you
that still knows wonder
without asking permission.
And if you listen closely,
when the night leans in just right,
you might hear her whisper:
You were never ordinary.
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