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ArtistKeep as is
She stood where rain and shadow met.
Outside, the city drowned itself in reflections. Neon flickered across wet stone like forgotten offerings cast into a dark lake. Inside, a tall vase of pale flowers leaned toward her as though listening.
They called her the Obsidian Butterfly.
Her robes were woven from night itself, black and silver bands flowing like rivers across volcanic glass. Around her neck hung disks of polished stone that held no reflection. To look into them was to see not your face, but the memory of something you had lost.
She was the wife of the Smoking Mirror, the lord who saw through deception, whose mirror showed every hidden desire, every secret wound, every dream people buried beneath their words.
Yet she was not feared as he was.
Where the Smoking Mirror revealed truths, the Obsidian Butterfly transformed them.
Each evening she gathered the discarded things of human hearts.
Regrets became moths.
Sorrows became flowers.
Broken promises drifted from her sleeves like black feathers.
Nothing was wasted.
The flowers beside her were not flowers at all. They were old griefs brought to bloom. Every petal had once been a disappointment. Every stem had once been a fear. She cultivated them patiently until they became beautiful enough to release.
Outside the window, the rain continued.
Inside, she raised one hand in a gesture older than language.
A thousand invisible butterflies emerged from the folds of her garments.
Their wings were obsidian edged with silver.
They flew through the city.
One settled upon a sleepless poet.
Another landed on a lonely widow.
A third rested upon a child staring into the darkness.
Wherever they touched, burdens became lighter.
Not vanished.
Transformed.
For that was her gift.
The Smoking Mirror showed humanity what it truly was.
The Obsidian Butterfly showed humanity what it might become.
By dawn the butterflies returned.
They carried new sorrows, new failures, new dreams.
She accepted them all without judgment.
The vase of flowers grew larger.
The city awoke.
And in the silent chamber between rain and shadow, the wife of the Smoking Mirror waited patiently for night to come again.
