silence
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An abandoned church keeps preaching through crows, wind, and old timber long after the congregation is gone.
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Where ivy swallows walls and darkness respects one small flame, the forest seems to keep a chapel of its 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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A love accepted in a smaller shape just to keep one particular person close leaves worth and regret deliberately unresolved.
Between Bruises & Blooms 