The word is carved into the earth like a prayer and a promise: RUN.
This isn’t flight. It’s freedom.
To leave is power.
To run is holy.
To survive is a kind of revolution.

She rides the beast of memory, bareback, bleeding, brilliant. Behind her, the sky burns red with everything she’s endured, hands that took, voices that broke, nights that didn’t end.
But she runs.
The creature beneath her, stitched from shadow and strength, tears through yellow fields, clawed feet pounding out defiance. Her past still clings, a smear of red, a mark on her back, but she doesn’t look behind.