candlelight
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At three in the morning, cards slide through the silence while an empty chair seems just a little too occupied.
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In a ruined chapel of ravens and ivy, one candle burns for the women history called wicked because they refused to disappear quietly.
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A worn deck becomes less about prophecy than permission—to rest, leave, grieve, become, and trust her own choices.
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An abandoned house and candlelight offer a resting place to a woman who has survived enough ghosts of her own.
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At three in the morning, a candle, black coffee, and forgotten women’s names turn the witching hour into a cathedral.
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At three in the morning, every poem becomes another lantern on the long road back to herself.
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At three in the morning, the world goes quiet enough for old houses, moonlight, and sleepless women to remember each other’s names.
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A candle burns impossibly still while an old house seems to remember every life that ever passed through its walls.
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At twilight, candlelight and cannabis turn an abandoned ivy-covered house into a place where smoke, grief, and old walls share the same air.
