Mending
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Each time The Star appears, hope looks less like an abstract symbol and more like a daughter still finding ways to shine.
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The Tower did not destroy her; it only tore down walls that were already cracked and left room to build something stronger.
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She learned to fold pain into laundry and coffee cups until silence looked like strength from the outside.
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The forest becomes a sanctuary where grief, rosemary, moonlight, and survival all speak the same old language.
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Grief does not always leave; sometimes it grows roots beneath the ribs until healing means learning how to bloom around it.
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Changing does not betray the woman she was; it simply means some survival versions no longer need permanent rooms inside her.
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Healing means keeping the truth about mistakes and scars without letting either become the whole story.
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She spent too long putting herself on trial for someone else’s silence before realizing the crime was never being too much.
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Healing did not make her untouched; it taught roots to grow through wreckage and flowers to feed on what once tried to bury her.
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The same door remains, but the woman behind it no longer mistakes hunger for love or scraps for a meal.
