In the void before time, there lived a nameless spirit who longed to be seen. But there were no eyes, no mirrors, only silence. So she tore herself apart, flinging pieces of her essence across nothingness. Her heart became a vortex. Her longing became flame. Her sorrow bloomed into galaxies.
And as the first flower unfurled within the storm, the void blinked. Creation had begun-not with a word, but with a wound.