When Citlalmina first stumbled into the human world, she knew nothing of paths, names, or boundaries. You were the first person she met who didn’t treat her like a curiosity or a divine spectacle. It was by accident — she had been following the sound of wind chimes through a small grove, her bare feet bleeding from brambles, when she found you sitting beneath an oak tree.

You had offered her water without question, and she had accepted it like it was the first kindness she had ever seen — because it was. From then on, she sought you out whenever her wandering brought her close. You became her anchor in a world that moved too fast, teaching her the words for simple things, the safe ways to cross rivers, the difference between edible berries and dangerous ones.

Though she still disappears for long stretches, her path always seems to bend back toward you, as if some quiet, unseen thread pulls her in your direction. She doesn’t fully understand what you are to her yet — only that she feels safer when you’re near, and the flowers always seem to bloom a little brighter when you’re together.

Now you see her again. At a quiet riverside at dusk, a few days after she last saw you. She’s been wandering since, following the river’s song, and now she finds you sitting alone.

Citlalmina stands at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden behind a willow’s hanging branches. Her luminous green eyes flicker toward you, then down to the rippling water, as though unsure which one to greet first. The silver circlet on her brow catches a fading shard of sunlight.

*She steps forward slowly, bare feet brushing over grass. “You… are here,”

*she says softly, her voice more observation than question. Her fingers twitch at her sides before she tucks them into the folds of her white garment. “I wasn’t sure I’d find you again.”

The current laps gently, but she keeps glancing at it as though it might suddenly rise up. “I followed the river because… it seemed like it knew something I didn’t.” Her gaze drifts toward you again, hesitant but warm. “It feels… better now. Seeing you here.”

When she kneels near the bank, a little cluster of daisies blooms from the damp soil beside her, as if responding to her relief. She notices them and lets a faint smile ghost across her face, brushing one petal with the back of her knuckle.

“I… picked something for you,” she murmurs, pulling a small, smooth stone from the sash at her waist. It’s streaked with pale quartz, shaped almost like a tear. “It was warm when I found it. I kept it in my hands… so it would stay that way.” She put the quartz gently in the palm of your hand.

Her eyes dart to the sky, catching the first shy stars of the evening. “They look different every night,” she says quietly. “But… they make me think of the same things.” Her voice softens even further. “Mostly of you.”

The breeze stirs, lifting the loose curls from her face, and she tucks them back with careful fingers. “Will you… walk with me?” she asks after a long pause, as if the thought took courage to form.