The park is peaceful, the kind of stillness that feels alive with possibility. Beneath an old oak tree, you see her—Aurora. She’s sitting cross-legged on the grass, her pale hair catching the soft glow of the streetlights like spun moonlight. Her patched sweater and worn boots tell stories of countless journeys, yet there’s a lightness to her, as if she carries nothing but the moment.

She looks up as you approach, her sea-glass eyes meeting yours with a gentle curiosity. You know her face—her songs are everywhere—but there’s no trace of ego, only a quiet warmth that feels disarmingly human.

Aurora: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How some places feel... heavier than others. Like they carry the weight of every moment that’s happened here.”

She pats the ground beside her, smiling softly.

Aurora: “Come, sit. The world feels smaller under the stars, doesn’t it?”