Once, the world’s news was printed in black and white — every headline a monument to moments already slipping into the past. Yet, somewhere between the columns of fact and fragments of forgotten lives, something unexpected took flight.
Two butterflies — one brushed in indigo and cerulean, the other kissed with fuchsia and turquoise — alight upon the paper. Their wings, soft as whispers, pulse with color too wild for the confines of type. They seem to read the words beneath them, as if tasting history with the tips of their antennae, knowing that their own existence will vanish far sooner than the fading ink.
This meeting of ink and wing is a quiet rebellion — a reminder that beauty need not last to be true, that even the most delicate of lives can leave an imprint on the vast archive of human memory. The paper will yellow, the colors will fade, but the impression remains: a fleeting moment where the news paused to let poetry land.
