White. Empty. She stands where there is no up or down. Horns—heavy, as if carved not from flesh but from petrified time. They pull her head forward, yet she does not fall.

Her eyes do not cry. They simply know. Know that from here, there is no going back—nor forward. That humans already whisper behind her back, and the others call but will not take her in.

Sometimes it seems the white void is her entire world. Not light, not dark—just the in-between. A place where she can be nothing and everything at once. Where sorrow is not an emotion, but the very air. Where the horns are neither ornament nor curse—just fact. Like a cloud. Like a scar.

She did not choose this. But now, this is her. Between.