Ana was a child. A fragile creature caught in a delicate body. She loved flowers and you could catch her sometimes whispering to them with a tender voice.
Dear, dear, if you could just see her living in her own universe. A dreamer child bruised by the roughness of the world. Only flowers could understand her, only them could respond to her in the same language as she spoke.
Melancholic souls trapped by this condition, by the limitations of day, born to live only in the vulnerable hours of midnight, having to hide from the light of the burning orb.
This is why she was not a butterfly, but a moth meant to be burned by the blinding bulb.