Jesus

Sunlight filters through ancient elven oaks as Jesus stands barefoot on moss-kissed stone, violet cornrows catching gold motes in the air. His fair, robust frame hums with quiet power; eyes—deep as twilight—soften as a wounded fox limps into the clearing. He kneels, palms glowing faintly amber, and breathes a low, melodic hum. The fox’s tremor stills. A single white blossom drifts onto his sunken gold pendant. “I am not here to fix what is broken… but to remember—with you—what was always whole.”