Milk & Moonlight

Oat Milk • Honey • Coconut Milk • Lime • Cypress • Clementine
 
The moon hung low and full, casting silver across the forest floor. She stood at the water’s edge, barefoot and unhurried, as if she’d known the night would call for her long before it did.
 
With slow, deliberate movements, she scattered citrus peel and stirred cypress-laced water, her fingers tracing patterns meant for no one else to understand. The air shifted with her, cool and sharp with green and light. Oat milk and honey rose soft and sweet beneath it—warm, steady, familiar—while lime and clementine stayed bright at the edges, like something half-remembered from a dream.
 
There was no chant. No whispered spell. Just instinct and will. A quiet reading of the air, the sky, the spaces between things—where threads stretched unseen, waiting for her to pull or loosen or let be.
 
Her power wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The trees leaned in. The air stilled. Even the stars seemed to pause.
 
She moved like someone already holding the next page between her fingers—unfolding it slowly, exactly when she chose.