21.How Can She Be the Head?

She was a prostitute, wasn't she?

How could she now lead this project,

the one I should be steering,

the one I've spent my life preparing for?

I've lived through centuries,

born in 1375,

I've watched empires rise and crumble

while she—

she looks no older than 27.

How could someone like her

stand at the helm

of all that matters?

She strides through the room

like a queen, as if she owns the place,

her eyes sharp as knives,

her presence undeniable.

But me—

I have 387 years carved into my bones,

years that carry weight,

experience, knowledge,

and a history this project deserves.

How does she—so young—

command what I have built?

I've heard the whispers,

how she sold herself once,

to survive, to exist.

And now she stands here,

the head of the table,

the one who directs us all.

How did she rise from the streets

to this height of power?

I thought time would break her,

but instead, it seems she bends it,

walking untouched by age,

while I grow older by the day.

It's not just her face,

smooth as if no years have passed,

but the way she holds herself—

like time doesn't touch her,

like she's something more

than the rest of us.

I've seen centuries unfold,

but now I feel like I'm standing still,

while she moves forward,

carving out a future

I thought I was meant to shape.

I should be the one leading.

I've paid my dues in blood and sweat,

earned my right to rule.

She should be nothing more

than a shadow in the past,

but here she is,

leading the charge,

while I am left wondering

how the world turned upside down.

I remember a time

when women like her

were cast aside,

but she defies every rule,

every expectation.

She doesn't just survive—

she thrives,

while I, the elder,

am left with nothing but questions.

How can she stand so tall,

when I feel myself crumbling?

Her hands are smooth,

untouched by the weight of years,

while mine are cracked,

marked by the passing of time.

I thought wisdom came with age,

that experience meant power,

but she's rewritten the script,

and now I'm left behind,

clinging to a past

that no longer seems to matter.

When she speaks,

the room falls silent.

Even I can't help but listen

to the way her voice commands.

She doesn't need to shout,

doesn't need to prove herself—

her authority is in her presence,

in the way she moves,

as if the world bends for her,

while I struggle to keep pace.

I thought leadership was earned,

that my years, my history,

would make me the one to guide this.

But now I see her—

the way they look at her,

the way they trust her—

and I realize I've been living

in the shadow of my own expectations.

She's something more

than just her past,

more than the woman I thought I knew.

But still, it stings.

I am older,

I have seen the world in ways

she could never understand.

Yet, here I stand,

wondering why she leads,

why I feel like a ghost

in the room I should own.

Perhaps it's not her youth

that bothers me,

but the way she moves through time,

unaffected, unburdened.

I've watched the world decay,

felt the weight of history,

while she seems to carry nothing

but the future in her hands.

And maybe that's it—

maybe that's why she's the head.

Not because of her past,

not because she's young,

but because she sees what I cannot,

because she's willing to shape

what I've only tried to preserve.

She's the one who moves forward,

while I stand still,

rooted in a time

that no longer exists.

I've lived through centuries,

but perhaps that's my curse—

to watch the world change,

while I remain the same.

She's risen from the shadows,

and maybe, just maybe,

she was always meant to lead.

And I, for all my years,

was meant to watch her rise.