“What a pretty way to lose my faculties,” Ava thought.
Her face was old, but not wrinkled. Her emerald eyes deep and bottomless, seeming to shimmer with autonomous light. They looked of age, yet the skin around them did not sag. Fiery life shone in her cheeks, deep smiling lines framed her full plum lips. The piled shape of her hair radiated opalescent light, so subtly, and her head swayed atop her neck as if attached to the lightest marionette string.
The ancient young woman looked like magic, personified. Older than the imagination. She looked like ages and ages of suffering, ages and ages of deepest love. She looked like the freshest, newest joy. Personified…