The Dawn Guardian of Viridessa

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When the first pallor of dawn kisses the endless gardens of Viridessa, she awakens—the Dawn Guardian. Silently, like a thought between sleep and memory, her figure rises from the mist, floating over the damp stalks. Her body is not a body of flesh, but a fluid play of young light, soft moss green, and the gentle white of the first morning. Her movement is a dance, so light that even the dew beneath her feet does not break, but begins to float in delicate drops—like greetings from the night garden to the coming day. Her skin bears the play of colors of the early hour: a green that is just beginning to remember that it may live, crisscrossed by shimmering veins of misty white. These do not flow with blood, but with memory—of light, of hope, of all that passes without being lost. Her hair is not made of strands, but of floating seed pods, delicate luminous beings that revolve around her head like tiny comets, carried by the breath of the world. And around her, the morning begins to breathe—pollen of light rises, fleeting and glittering, swirling through the twilight, painting signs that only the dreamers know how to read. The Dawnkeeper bears a task older than any language: she is the guardian of the threshold. Between night and day, between dream and waking, between what was and what might be. With each hour of the night, she gathers what passes: the fleeting fragments of dreams, the last thoughts of a sleeper, the unspoken hopes, the echo of a wish never fully realized. With hands woven half of light, half of leaf veins, she pieces these dreams together. From them, new seedlings emerge—delicate structures of memory and possibility. She doesn't dig the earth, she doesn't sow seeds: she plants dreams in roots, lets them become colors, scents, fleeting melodies carried by the wind through the gardens. Those lucky enough to meet her don't speak words. They tell of a silence that makes the heart beat more still, of a feeling as if, for a moment, one were living in a world that has forgotten suffering. Her eyes usually remain closed—not from tiredness, but because her gaze would reveal too much. But sometimes, when a particularly precious dream floats past her, she slowly lifts her eyelids. Then her eyes shine with a dull, silvery light, as if the first morning of all time were stored within them. And for that long breath, it seems as if heaven and earth were breathing together, as if everything had one heart. Even before the sun touches the horizon, she strides through the mist one last time. Slowly, like a song coming to a close. Her body begins to shimmer, her contours blur. As the light grows, she becomes more translucent, until she almost disappears—not entirely, only as much as necessary. What remains is a delicate trail of pollen, a shimmering mark in the grass, a whisper among the leaves.