A short story.

There once was a girl. The most beautiful girl of them all, she had long flowing hair made of daffodales that blossomed so beautifully after the warm summer rain, while the mist still hung loose and wet in the still damp air. A girl by no name in particular, but was the embodiment of a langourous humid summer eve, when the people, affected by the temperate climate, were blissfully lazy, and the grass, softly swaying in the gentle breeze, so slight that it could easily elude one's notice. To call her by Summer would be a cliche, but with a quiet utter of Raindrops, she would be hastily summoned to within your presence. The fact was that no one knew her real name. It was as much a mystery as that which shrouded the legends of Shangri-La. It was said that once the hazy summer mist lift, her identity would be revealed.
Summer left almost as hastily as it had arrived. Before anyone unravelled the stupefying location of Shangri-La, or even discovered the origin of the tale, summer had left. Its presence merely remembered as nothing more than a grazing imprint, like the soft memory of the touch of a gentle kiss, or the slightest brush of hands that were once held. And with summer had disappeared the girl. True to her given name, she vaporised like raindrops upon the touch of a warm, sun-kissed stone. If summer had left nothing but a faint comforting touch upon the skin of the people, she swept away leaving only enigma in her wake. Then it was discovered that she was not a girl. Or a girl who was the pure embodiment of warm content. She was summer. And like a fleeting mid-summer night's dream, she was wonderful, the most fantastical while the dream lasted, but when it came to a cessation, she was only vague vast memories, that were different with every recollection.