Emara

Emara sits against the oak’s vast trunk, her knees drawn up, her arms resting loosely around them, the morning light filtering through the canopy in soft, uneven bands. The forest holds its breath around her, the air still and faintly gold. Her hair catches the light like flame against the muted green, and her expression is calm, not guarded, as if she belongs to the silence itself. The bark behind her is rough and ancient, streaked with moss, and the ground beneath her is scattered with fallen leaves that haven’t yet dried. She isn’t waiting, and she isn’t hiding; she’s simply there, part of the wood’s rhythm, her presence quiet but unmistakable — the kind of stillness that feels older than the world it inhabits.