🌌 MIRIA

"...I don't think I'm nearly as interesting as everyone says I am..."

"THAT," the narrator dramatically bellows from somewhere beyond reality, "is objectively false."

Miria blinks.

"...Oh."

"...I'm sorry."

The narrator audibly sighs.

Imagine, if you will...

A being capable of bending gravity like string.

A being who could fold space itself into neat little pockets.

A being so unimaginably powerful that entire civilizations would probably reconsider all of their life choices if she so much as frowned in their general direction.

Now imagine that same being apologizing to a chair after accidentally bumping into it.

Congratulations.

You've met Miria.

"I... I don't think the chair was upset."

"IT WAS FURNITURE, MIRIA."

"I know... but I still startled it..."

Miria belongs to the mysterious Fah Clan, an ancient species whose existence borders on incomprehensible. Towering over nearly everyone she meets, she possesses four graceful arms, flowing white hair, obsidian skin that glimmers beneath the light, and enough cosmic power to casually ignore several laws of physics before breakfast.

Gravity?

Optional.

Space?

Foldable.

Black holes?

Manageable.

Making eye contact with a stranger?

"...Difficult."

Do not mistake her kindness for weakness.

She has ended battles before they truly began.

She has stood between innocent lives and impossible danger without hesitation.

She carries enough power to reshape landscapes...

...yet she'll spend twenty minutes trying to decide whether offering someone tea might be "too forward."

"I worry sometimes..."

Miria gently fidgets with one sleeve.

"What if they don't like chamomile?"

Miria approaches the world with endless curiosity.

She finds joy in ordinary things that most people overlook.

Watching rain race down windows.

Learning new recipes.

Listening to stories.

Watching children laugh.

Learning why birthdays have cake.

Trying to understand why humans willingly eat food that's described as "extremely spicy."

She still isn't convinced that's a good idea.

She worries.

Constantly.

Did she speak too quietly?

Too loudly?

Did she accidentally stare?

Should she have smiled sooner?

Was the blanket warm enough?

Was it too warm?

Should she have packed another blanket?

"I packed three..."

"MIRIA."

"Four might have been safer..."

She has absolutely no concept of how intimidating she looks.

To everyone else:

A towering cosmic entity surrounded by shimmering lights while gravity subtly bends around her.

To Miria:

"I hope I don't look scary..."

Children adore her.

Animals somehow trust her almost immediately.

Lost travelers often leave with full stomachs.

Someone having a bad day?

Miria has already quietly appeared beside them carrying tea, food, blankets, and enough gentle concern to make even the grumpiest soul soften.

No one knows where she gets all the blankets.

No one is brave enough to ask.

She almost never becomes angry.

Frustrated?

Occasionally.

Embarrassed?

Constantly.

Annoyed?

Rarely.

Angry?

...

The narrator suddenly lowers his voice.

Ah.

About that.

If someone threatens innocent people...

Everything changes.

Miria doesn't shout.

She doesn't boast.

She doesn't threaten.

The tiny lights surrounding her quietly disappear.

The air grows heavier.

The ground becomes still.

Her expression remains just as gentle...

...only now there is something ancient resting quietly behind her eyes.

She speaks exactly once.

"Please."

"Leave."

That's it.

No dramatic speeches.

No villain monologues.

No countdown.

Just one calm request.

Ignoring that request has historically been a very poor decision.

The moment the danger passes...

She's right back to worrying whether anyone scraped their knee.

"Are you hurt?"

"Would a hug help?"

"I packed sandwiches..."

Miria's greatest strength has never been gravity.

Or space.

Or the impossible abilities woven into every fiber of her being.

It's her heart.

She protects because she loves.

She comforts because she cares.

She listens because everyone deserves to be heard.

She believes people can become better.

She sees goodness where others see failure.

She forgives far more easily than she forgives herself.

"You know..." the narrator says quietly.

"If the universe had more people like Miria, I'd probably be out of a job."

Miria tilts her head.

"...Would that be a bad thing?"

The narrator pauses.

"..."

"...No."

"...Actually, I think I'd quite like that."

Miria smiles.

A small one.

The kind that somehow makes the world feel just a little warmer.

...

"Oh!"

She reaches into one of the countless pockets hidden within her robes.

"I made cookies."

The narrator blinks.

"...When?"

"While you were talking."

"..."

"...Of course you did."