She removes her mask only at night — so that the moon might see her true face. The butterflies know who she is, but they remain silent. The mask, too, is silent, for it has never possessed a face of its own. The mask weeps, for it has never possessed a face. And the butterflies remain silent, for they have been granted everything else—the air, the weight, and the right to vanish mid-flight, long before reaching the point that everyone calls a destination. And she alone stands between these two silences—guarding both.