The Girl on the Swing

High above the world, where the air was always sweet and the earth below felt far away, there was a swing hanging from a great, ancient tree. The swing's ropes were thick and worn from years of use, but they were strong, and the seat was made of polished wood, smooth and soft beneath the girl’s bare feet. It creaked gently as she pushed herself higher into the sky, her legs swinging forward, then backward, as if she were chasing the wind.

Her name was Lila, and on this warm, quiet afternoon, she had no other place to be but here, in this perfect moment, between the earth and the heavens.

The swing moved rhythmically, and as Lila soared higher and higher, her gaze drifted upward, beyond the branches of the tree to the vast expanse of blue. The sky stretched out endlessly, as though there were no end to it. It was the kind of sky that made you forget about time, made you forget about everything except the feeling of freedom.

She felt the cool wind rush past her face, tangling her dark hair, and she closed her eyes for a second, feeling weightless. When she opened them again, the world seemed different, softer somehow. The clouds had gathered, drifting like cotton candy, swirling in slow-motion formations—some billowy and white, others tinged with a soft pink from the sun’s last rays.