To those who knew her, Aëla wasn’t just a daughter, a sister, or a friend—she was joy in its purest form. From her earliest days, she radiated kindness. Her eyes sparkled with quiet wisdom, and her smile had the power to melt even the hardest days. She was gentle, thoughtful, and endlessly curious. Her laughter, sweet and bright, filled every space she entered, and her voice—always ready to sing—seemed to carry more than melody; it carried healing.
She also loved to dance—not for attention, not for performance, but for the sheer joy of movement. Her little feet would twirl across living room floors, school stages, and garden patios. Dancing, for Aëla, was freedom. It was expression. It was life in motion. She danced when she was happy, when she was excited, even when she wasn’t feeling well. It was her way of saying, “I’m still here. I’m still me.”
Aëla’s imagination was vivid and beautiful. She adored Peter Pan, and not just for the fairies and flying, but for the story’s message—that some spirits are not meant to grow old. She believed in Neverland the way other children believe in gravity—fully, freely, with no question. Peter Pan wasn’t a fantasy to her; it was a friend, a dream, a home for the kind of soul that refuses to be defined by time.
And that’s exactly who Aëla was—a timeless spirit in a small, fragile body. Continue reading…