In a dream of seasons, the great Lady of the Harbor found herself not by the sea, but in a garden of fleeting moments. The verdigris of her skin was a stark, ancient truth against the soft promise of pink cherry blossoms, which fell like silent confetti around her. Her torch, no longer a beacon for ships, now cast its steady golden flame as a companion to the pale orange dawn, a constant heart in a world that bloomed and faded with breathtaking speed. She held her tablet of laws, a strange anchor in this soft, fragrant wilderness, a monument to permanence lost in a beautiful, temporary spring.
