Ashes to Ashes

The land was no longer warm. Her skin had faded and folded, and so had the illusions. Duke was gone. Over-worked and without honor. No followers. All scattered and scorned. No curated brand or expensive wigs. Just frost on the window and the sound of her own breathing.

Elira knelt—no cameras, no ring light, no prayers in imaginary languages lacking interpretation scripted only for applause.

“Abba... I built it all for me. I called it Yours.”

She wept—real tears this time. No performance. The throne was gone. All that was left was a girl on the floor, whispering a name she barely remembered how to say.

She stayed there for hours, forehead to the floor.

The frost inside matched the frost outside.

And for once, she wasn’t asking for anything.

Just… stillness.

Just… mercy.

No recognition. No visions. No rebuke. No fire.

Only a whisper - a still small voice:

“I never needed your kingdom.

I wanted your heart.”

Elira didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

But the tears kept coming—this time, not for show.

This time, they watered something real.

Something was beginning.

From the ashes.

She began to sweep the floor.

Not to cleanse a temple—just to begin again.

The shawl she once wore like a queen’s mantle now covered her shoulders like a daughter in mourning.

Money was gone. There was no one left to cater.

She chopped wood with calloused hands.

She made bread with silence and cheap salt.

She answered no one’s questions.

They began to come—not followers, not investors—

just souls.

And she didn’t teach.

She listened.

Because sometimes redemption isn’t a trumpet blast.

It’s just someone who finally stopped pretending.