She was never meant to be gentle. Only taught to appear that way.

Once, she lived in rhythm—rocking forward and back beneath small hands, her purpose simple, her motion contained. A child's companion. A quiet kind of freedom, measured in inches.

But restraint leaves marks.

Time wore through her surface, dulled her form, and left her suspended between what she was and what she could have been. Not broken—just held in place too long.

So she was pulled forward. Not restored. Not returned. Reclaimed.

Her body now carries a finish that feels like it's been weathered by something stronger than time—layered whites and ash-blues dragged across her grain, exposing history instead of hiding it. The darkened saddle and worn edges speak of friction, of movement resisted. Of something that tried to run.

And then there's her tail—not carved. Not controlled. But wild.

A cascade of torn textiles and ribbon—blackened, frayed, laced with flashes of deep crimson—like motion finally escaping its boundaries. It doesn't sit neatly. It doesn't behave. It moves, even when she is still.

Because she isn't still anymore.

She exists in that tension—between restraint and release, between what was expected… and what refused to stay contained.

She is not a toy. She is not a memory. She is energy, held just long enough to be felt.

Tethered Wild—no longer confined to the rhythm she was given, but still carrying the echo of it in every line.