She was a girl walking home, under the soft rain. Drenched in the glow of streetlights. Her solo act had begun.

Puddles danced with the droplets sliding off her skin, electrified. The street was as restless as the sky. Water threaded through pools of light like ice skaters texturing a placid pond. The air breathed and the pavement danced and the stage was set. Everything was waiting for her. To come alive.

She was the sharp form in a blurry world. The rain could do little to buffer her edges.

Delicate jewels clung to her eyelashes and dripped from her fingertips. Soiled shoelaces dipped into puddles. She would need to clean them later, maybe. Skin frosted like rice paper displayed the yarn of blue veins beneath.

She was wrapped up in indigo. She glittered like diamonds.

Threads of hair were plastered to her cheek, caught in the corners of her mouth. Her wings hung limply, frayed at the edges.

She looked fragile, like a porcine doll, or an angle. But she was neither. She was a girl waiting for herself. To come alive. Buttery light shimmered across the pavement and flowed onto the street. Her solo act had begun.