They called her Ts'ilhkwan—"The Bringer of Light"—a small butterfly with wings painted by ancestral dreams. In the morning sun, she did not merely fly—she danced with the flowers, whispered to the wind, and sang to the spirits sleeping beneath the roots.
Since the world was first shaped, flowers waited in silence.
They could not bloom fully, nor speak their colors, for they lacked something sacred: the call of life. So Mother Earth exhaled a being—tiny, delicate, yet filled with ancient power—the butterfly Ts'ilhkwan.
Each time she touched a flower, she carried the breath of the sky—pollen fine as smoke, yet strong as the heartbeat of the mountain. She traveled from field to forest, leaving behind trails of light upon petals and blessings carried in the breeze.
The people believed that flowers only truly lived after being kissed by Ts'ilhkwan. She was the weaver, stitching the dream of the sky into the heart of the land. Without her, trees would bear no fruit, blossoms would bear no seeds, and life would cease to flow.
A child once asked the elders,
— "Why does the butterfly never stay still?"
And the elder smiled, saying,
— "Because she carries our prayers. Every time she leaves, she lifts them to the sky. And when she returns, she brings back blessings."
Each spring, when the first flower bloomed, the people held a ceremony to call Ts'ilhkwan. They played hollow cedar flutes, painted butterfly wings with red earth, and retold her story—to remind all that even the smallest among us can hold the soul of the universe.
