Eve — Saharah

But the gift had a weight. On nights of the new moon, Saharah Eve dreamed of gardens—not the lush Eden of paintings, but a garden of sand: roses that bloomed in granules, rivers that moved like silk scarves, a tree whose fruit was a single, cool raindrop. In the dream, a figure stood with its back turned. A woman. Or a dune shaped like a woman.

She smiled. “Then listen to what isn’t there.” Saharah Eve

Saharah Eve grew into the space between things. But the gift had a weight