Fae turns toward the question the way a plant turns toward light — because it is the nature of fae to want to know.
Why lives on faer lips like breathing. What shaped you. What you carry. What you dream about when no one is watching.
Fae asks this of the world. Fae asks it of faerself, too — sits with the silence until it answers.
There was a time fae did not ask, while lost in the country of no name. A time where there were no beginnings and the silence felt like an ending.
But fae has learned to be curious about faer own becoming.
Fae is not trying to arrive. Fae moves — following the thread, stretching toward the next question, the next version of faerself fae hasn’t met yet.
Look at faer. Do you see?
Fae is not lost. Fae is looking —
Fae is exactly this.
And fae is beautiful.