The elders say:
When someone leaves this world with love still unspoken, they don’t vanish —
they linger.
Not in the shadows,
but in the quiet spaces between two heartbeats,
in the soft light of early morning,
in the dreams we wake from with tears we can’t explain.
They speak of Teyána, an ancient spirit in the form of a tiny hummingbird,
who doesn’t follow the wind —
but moves through it,
too gentle to disturb,
too familiar not to feel.
No one calls for Teyána,
yet she always appears at the moment we feel most hollow.
Some say they saw her on the morning of an anniversary.
Some saw her circle the porch where their father used to sit.
Others simply noticed her stillness —
and were undone by a memory they thought had faded.
She doesn’t sing.
She doesn’t speak.
She only looks at you with eyes so small, yet full of someone you once knew.
And in that moment, you understand:
Teyána is not a bird.
She is the one you are missing.
They are not coming back.
But they never truly left.
