The Glass Wraith gift the Siren’s Lament stirs

the Siren’s Lament stirs

this leaf held fast

and the deepest brown

No one thought to question why so many confidences slipped from lips in her presence

She moves with purpose — tracing the edges of the sleeping forest

The Glass Wraith gift the Siren’s Lament stirsThey say she lingers where the light grows thin not out of malice, but out of memory. The Glass Wraith is no howling spectre, no vengeful shade. She is quieter than that. A presence caught between breaths, glimpsed in the shimmer of a curtain or the glint of a near invisible crystal. Once, perhaps, she waited by candlelight for a promise unkept, her hands folded, her resolve turning to mist. Now she waits still, bound not by chains but by the fragile