On Wings and the Permission to Begin Again: A Zoë Modiga Reflection

She wore heels that struck the concrete with a deliberate clarity, each step a punctuation. Bangles lined her arms, a soft chime of metal against metal, and from her shoulders rose a pair of wings. They were delicate, sculptural things, neither costume nor mere ornament but something in between: an extension of her, a declaration that she had chosen to arrive differently tonight. The wings caught the amber light, turning with her as she moved through the gathering, and the bubbles drifting past seemed to adjust their course around her, as though the air itself had learned a new choreography.