Before The Flight A face blurred by memory, not erased—just rewritten in petals and smoke. Beauty here is not gentle. It’s defiance dressed in bloom, wounds folded into wings. The butterfly doesn't escape— it interrupts, choosing color over silence, motion over fear. Gold lines pulse behind pain, like truth too loud to stay hidden. A single question lingers, sharp as breath: What if I fall? But I’ve already fallen. This— this is the part where I fly anyway.