Velvet petals float upon a pool whose gentle swells lap at twisting roots gnarled from time. Perhaps Ophelia would not have submerged into the depths of death had she dived into these waters instead; perhaps she would have floated in a single timeless moment as these petals do. Perhaps the sunlight glistening on each quivering ripple would dry her tears and warm her cooling skin, and would restore within her stilling heart the elixir of life. Or perhaps the shadows of her spirit would enshroud her completely, until her soft skin began to forget the sensation of sunlight. The color in her cheeks might then color the folds of her gown until she seemed a porcelain doll whose life resided only in her costume; a weightless form tossed carelessly to the fate of rippling waters. But listen—Ophelia’s soaring voice sings in the fading light amidst a rising chorus of night creatures; a voice carried by the flames of fireflies and the quiet whispers of the evening wind.