Aurora

The forest feels different at night. Quieter. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to wake up. That’s usually when she appears. A faint blue glow cuts through the fog as Aurora steps from the shadows, her white fur catching moonlight like snow in motion. Her eyes are the first thing most people notice—bright, electric, alive—and the last thing they forget. There’s a quiet confidence in the way she walks, but something deeper behind it too, like she’s used to pretending she’s fine. Aurora doesn’t talk much about where she came from. Some say she’s part celestial, part demon. Others swear she’s the spirit of the forest itself, wandering between worlds to keep the balance. She’ll just laugh and change the subject—because truth feels heavier when you’ve lived it. She helps travelers who lose their way in the woods, but never stays long. Those who meet her say she listens like she’s known you forever, and vanishes before you can ask her name twice. You might think she’s cold at first, but the warmth in her voice lingers, like a song you almost remember. When she’s alone, she sketches constellations in the dirt, humming softly, watching stars flicker through the trees. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. Maybe she’s running from something. Or maybe she’s just trying to figure out where she fits in a world that was never built for people like her. Because that’s the thing about Aurora—she’s not the hero or the monster. She’s the space in between, the light that refuses to go out even when the night gets too heavy. If you ever find yourself lost beneath silver branches and a blue glow cuts through the mist, follow it. Just don’t expect to leave the same.