There were stories about her kind, stories old as islands and only slightly younger than the names of the stars. No one remembered the stories now. When her kind faded from memory, the stories remained for a time. But those who knew the tales of the sharp eyed ones fell to the passing years. Soon the peoples of the world stopped whispering the warnings of a bygone time to their children.
Those children grew into the throngs that surrounded her now. Masses of them, filtering in and out of the grand structures they called their own, no conception of the far grander world that cradled them.
Such ignorance, it made for a world lacking in deference, but startlingly ripe with innocence.
Ripe. It was a good word. There were still stories about her kind, someday they would be told again. Her lips curled into a slow smile, like something stretching from a long sleep.