Her eyes were a vivid green. She had hair of a deep plum colour that stood out against the emerald of the trees.
The humans pitied her, for she could not speak.
She was born that way, blind and mute, to a human mother who had forsaken her. Sight came to her with age, but speech did not.
And yet, the very touch of her fingertips gave rise to miracles. Blossoms awakened to skies full of stars. Caterpillars grew wings and joined their brethren in flight. Leaves that were brown and brittle became green once more.
She had never spoken, and may never do so. But in the evenings, when the sun sinks below the western mountains, the woodlands rustle with her wordless song.