She skips along the top of an old stone wall,
humming along to the wind.
Crimson pomegranate pips burst between her teeth,
sweet and sharp, staining her smile.

Peace rises as she jumps down into the dark woods,
cool hush of moss and bark between her toes.
Excitement sparks as she leaps into the open field,
warm light spilling as honey across her skin.

Vaulting from side to side at will,
up into sunlight,
down into shadow,
she speaks the language of them all,
then back to her place on the wall.

Shadow and light — all woven from the same thread.

She hops.
She laughs.
She balances from side to side.

It is only when she pauses —
retracing a step,
leaning her head to the side — 
she feels them watching.

From the sunny field, eyes widen.
Mouths twist.
From the dark, eyes close
and arms reach out

They stare at the shape-shifter,
unsettled by her weaving.
Uncomfortable with a thing that lives between worlds.

Puzzled, she sits on the wall and watches.
She hums.
She smiles.
She waits.

But they do not hum
They do not smile
They do not wait.
They close their ears.

They reach

They reach.
Hands claw at her from both sides.
Voices slither, and twist.
They demand, they insist.
One twisted mouth grips an arm.
One darkness wraps roots around the other.

They pull.

Bone strains.
Skin tears.
Balance shatters.
What once was whole, now in two.

Dragged down,
kept in worlds that cut and close around her.
She breaks.
Too much light burns her blind.
Too much shadow swallows her whole.

Hollowed, she wanders, a ghost in both places.
Always wrong.
Told she can only be in one.
The humming falls silent within her.

What once wanted to weave now wants to sever.
What once listened now watches, waits.

She uses the weight of silence as armour.
Calm rage to masquerade as clarity.

She begins to turn her back on both worlds —
spitting shadow into the light,
firing flames into the dark.

Growling, groaning, she wanders
grinding earth beneath her feet,
until she sees it.
She remembers.

The wall.

She runs.
She runs and she runs,
faster than fear,
faster than shadow,
faster than the light that blinds her.

From both sides, she leaps — arms outstretched —
back onto the stone.
She fuses together.
Fragment by fragment.
Breath by breath.

The edges soften.
The armour loosens.
The silence remembers how to hum.

What learned to sever, remembers how to weave.
What learned to watch, remembers how to listen.

She, the walker,
the shape-shifter,
dances through worlds,
weaving through hope, dream, and fear —
she hums on the wall,
and the space beside her waits.

She laughs softly as the crows sing her return.
She skips along the wall once more,
life singing through her bones.

Hopping.
Humming.
Home.

Wall walker.
Shape-shifter.
Siren of the in-between.