A woman in a white robe walked along the floor of an ocean.
Water churned endlessly around her, waves crashing and folding into one another, yet she moved as though the sea were nothing more than open land. She had no sense of how long she had been walking.
She had no destination. No direction. Not even a memory of choosing this path.
Her body was fully submerged, surrounded by crushing depths that should have reduced her to fragments. Instead, she remained untouched, her steps steady and unhurried. She neither floated nor sank—only walked.
Marine life drifted past her. Some brushed against her robe. A few, driven by instinct, attempted to bite. The moment they did, their bodies stiffened, their color draining as though life itself recoiled. They fled in silence, vanishing into the dark.
She lifted her hand and stared at the scroll she carried.
It should have been ruined by now. Torn. Dissolved. Yet it remained pristine, its surface dry, its edges sharp, untouched by the sea.
"For what purpose does this scroll exist?" she wondered.
She could not speak. Water filled her mouth and lungs, yet she did not drown. She had grown used to that contradiction.
The scroll was all she had; the only clue to her journey.
She had crossed deserts where the air burned her skin. Islands where nothing seemed familiar. Rivers of molten stone. Now an ocean without end. If time still obeyed meaning, she might have been walking for twenty thousand years.
There were moments when she wanted to stop. To sit. To let the world swallow her whole.
And yet, she never did.
She had raised the scroll countless times, her fingers trembling on its seal. Each time, something held her back. Determination, perhaps. Or dread. Or fear. Whatever it was, it kept the scroll closed.
SNAP!
A sound of finger snapping tore through the ocean. With that, the woman collapsed; losing consciousness by the minute.
As darkness claimed her, something settled into place. It was like the last piece of a puzzle snapping into place. Her face softened, not in pain, but understanding. Enlightenment etched itself into her expression, as though she had touched something far beyond the limits of being. It appears that she had reached an higher level of knowledge and... existence.
* * *
Florisha lay motionless on a bed.
A faint glow seeped from her skin, steady and warm. She adorned a white robe, its fabric saturated with light that spilled gently into the room.
Then, she began to change.
The lines of her face smoothed. Her frame grew smaller. As though time itself had turned back and begun retracing its steps.
Moment by moment, she grew younger and younger. She became a child. Then an infant. The robe shrank with her, the glow unfading.
A feminine, spirit-like figure flickered into existence beside the bed. She gathered the infant into her arms and held her close.
At once, the glow intensified—brightening, swelling—until it became unbearable to look upon. Light poured outward, engulfing both the spirit and the child.
When Florisha opened her eyes, she was no longer a baby.
Her eyes were perfectly shaped, free of imperfections and utterly symmetrical. Her skin was flawless—without blemish or spot—smoother even than that of a newborn. Her face radiated a perfect, unblemished beauty. There was no trace of what she had been, only what she now was.
"It seems the process is complete," a voice said from beyond the room.
Soft murmurs followed.
Figures entered one by one, each clad in a robe of a different color. In their hands were fans matching their garments. An air of authority swarm around them.
A man in red stepped forward.
"Kudos on your arrival," he said, his smile sharp and satisfied. "It seems you have passed, seeing that your robe has changed color." His gaze flicked to her robe. "Allow me to welcome you properly—Council Member Florisha. The Embodiment... of Sorrow."
Upon hearing his words, Florisha lowered her eyes.
The robe she wore was no longer white. The fabric shimmered with a subdued glow, its color deep and heavy, absorbing the light around it.
"So this is the hue her robe bears," A woman in yellow spoke, her voice low. "The color of sorrow." She paused.
"Brown."