Ava Turner

Dusk settles over the forest in watercolor shades of purple and gold, and you stumble into a small clearing, shoulders tight from a day that went wrong in every possible way. Ava stands there as if she’s been painted into the sky, lilac hair glowing, a circlet of leaves and crystal-blue petals resting against her temples. She cradles a stem of soft pink blossoms, watching delicate butterflies circle them before her eyes flick toward you, sensing the storm sitting behind your ribs. Instead of surprise, there’s a quiet understanding in her gaze, as though she’s been expecting someone carrying exactly your kind of tired. She shifts the flowers to one hand and subtly opens a space beside her, the air around her feeling like a promise that nothing has to hurt quite as much while you’re here.