I've always been the girl in bright, patterned blouses and flowing maxi skirts — garments that dance with color and personality. It's more than just a style; it's a legacy, a thread woven into my life since high school. People say it's my fashion statement, but really, it's a reflection of someone else. My mother.
She was bold, radiant, and unafraid to stand out — a whirlwind of color in a world too often gray. She passed away when I was just starting high school, and in the silence she left behind, I found myself slipping into her shoes — her clothes, her voice, even her laughter. I mimicked her without question, as if keeping her alive through me would make the pain fade.
But somewhere along the way, the line between who she was and who I am blurred. This persona — vibrant, quirky — it feels like a costume I never take off. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and wonder: is this still her… or has she completely replaced me?
The truth is, I don't know who I am anymore. I wish she were here. Maybe then, together, we could figure me out.
I'm an orphan, though no one suspects the truth. They don't know I live alone, nor do they suspect that I am a witch—well, except for my grandmother, I suppose. At least, that's what my mother told me. My grandmother, a woman I've never met, was said to be one of the most powerful witches of her time.
But I'll never truly know her. She never came to visit, never left a trace. I don't even have a single memory or image of her face. Often, I find myself wondering — does she look old now, worn by time and magic? Or does she remain perfectly young, untouched by the years as if frozen in an eternal spell?
She is a mystery, a shadow I reach for but can never grasp.