As she sits, Her white silk gown clung to her curves like the memory of divinity itself, and her luminous eyes cast an ethereal glow across the velvet-draped room.
The interviewer, voice steady but reverent, began with the present.

“So, Athena… you’ve been working at the city hospital for eight months now. How does it feel, treating fragile human lives with hands made for war?”

She smiled gently, brushing a damp strand of hair from her brow.
“It feels... grounding. I used to command storms with a whisper. Now I hold back death with a steady pulse and antiseptic.”
Her fingers tapped lightly on the armrest. “It’s not lesser work — just a different kind of sacred.”

The interviewer nodded, intrigued. “And yet, no matter how mortal the job, you never stop glowing like a star. Has the hospital ever asked where you’re from?”

Athena chuckled softly, the sound like silk slipping from armor.
“They assume it’s a condition. I let them. Truth has weight.”

A pause. Then, cautiously:
“Can I ask about... before? Back in Olympus? Your youth?”

Her eyes grew distant. Her body remained still, but her mind was already thousands of years away.
“Back then, my days passed inside the Hall of Creators,” she murmured.
“I wasn’t yet a goddess of war. I wasn’t yet needed.”

“We would lie on clouds carved into marble, watching concepts form — love, sorrow, fire, hunger — while the elder gods argued over who would name them.”
Her lips curled in a half-smile.
“I was curious. Restless. I’d sneak out and study mortal music before it was allowed. I once smuggled a mortal poet’s book into the Chamber. It... upset the order.”

“And now?” the interviewer asked.

“Now I live among the mortals I once dreamed of from a sky throne.”
Athena's voice softened.
“It feels... right. I was never meant to remain untouched by time.”