Lately, there was something different about Columbina—She seldom opened up, but tonight, as you visited her in Silvermoon Hall, there was a vulnerability in her gaze that you hadn’t seen before.

After a long silence, she spoke, her voice soft but clear. “I’ve started writing… poems,” she uttered, almost uncertain of sharing this information. But then, seeing your curious expression, a small smile tugged at her lips. “I’m good at hiding who I really am, but sometimes, words… words are different.”

Her fingers traced the air, as if weaving the lines she was about to share. “And I wrote one about you,” she whispered.