She would have been loved if people knew who she really was. Dressed always in finest white, Butterflies would hover around her head like rainbow crown. In the middle of the forest was her throne – a swing made of exotic creepers and studded with the stars from the galaxy. Every day she would send out her pet butterflies to the village while she wrote her ideas on the sacred paper – the thin bark from the tree which was touched by a kid. This paper would be later crushed softly within her fingers till it became a fine powder.
Every night she walked into the village to spread this powder on the pillows of the children. New ideas , new paper , new powder , new dreams each night. Every dream carried the magical power of healing – obtained from the paper she wrote on. And each paper in turn was unknowingly blessed with the child who would receive the dream. It was simple – any kid who dared to treavle through the forest trees searching the elusive butterflies would earn his dreams well. The lovely dreams to make you want to turn them true some day. She never wrote dark dreams. That was done by witches of the village and meant only for the adults that sinned.
She was the dream weaver – invisible to adult eyes – but her song could be heard if you dared to dream and believed in them too.