C'est Manon
I met her in the morning.
Soft light played across her face, casting shadows that danced like whispers of forgotten dreams.
Manon sat there, her eyes glinting with the kind of quiet enigma that only those who understand the fragility of time can possess.
She smiled, fleeting, fragile - like the wingbeat of a butterfly.
For a moment, it felt like the world paused just to take her in. She drank her coffee and looked closely at the shapes that the foam left on the porcelain rim of her cup, cradled in her hand.
At noon, I saw her again.
The sunlight caught the shimmer of her hair, the subtle tilt of her head as if she was listening to some secret melody no one else could hear.
She was art in motion, but she just sat there in her stillness.
A quiet storm wrapped in silk and shadow.
I reached for her, but she moved and slipped just beyond my grasp, leaving behind the sense of longing for permeance in a world of fleeting moment.
And then, at night, I discovered her.
In the low light, she was something else entirely, transformed. Smoke and moonlight, the sharp edge of glass beneath velvet.
Her gaze found mine, and for a breathless instant, I felt seen. Known. And then, gone.
The echo of her laugh, the ghost of her touch, lingering in the dark.
But her presence stays in the cracks of my memory, in the spaces between heartbeats.
Manon’s soul is like a butterfly.
Delicate, ephemeral and yet forged from something eternal. Beauty that does not fade, only changes form.
Soft as silk, sharp as steel.
Narrative by Sandra papke
Photopragphy by Dongho Lee
