She wore rhodolite fire like a crown of lost stars—each facet catching whispers of forgotten dreams and flickers of ancient skies. The gem glowed not just with beauty, but with memory, as though each spark held a story untold. People watched her pass, drawn not to her footsteps, but to the quiet gravity of her presence. She moved like dusk—soft, powerful, inevitable. In her eyes danced the same fire that circled her brow: passion, resilience, and mystery. The crown was no ornament. It was a symbol. She did not wear it to be seen—she wore it to remember.
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