She was never quite sure if her mother had named her after the flower or the eye. "Both," her mother would say, touching the space between her own brows. "The iris is the bridge. Color between the storms."
"I think I see it," he said.
Because the sky was never just the sky to her. It was the only place where something could be vast and delicate at the same time. Where a storm could rage two miles away while a single patch of quiet blue stayed perfectly still above her head. That was her. That was the iris in the sky —not the whole atmosphere, not trying to be. Just a small, watching circle of color. A pupil dilated with wonder. irisintheesky