It slips gently through the leaves β like the breath of morning, like a hope almost forgotten.
There, where the forest whispers in the language of silence.
Where the sky hides in petals, and the air hums softly, as if itβs guarding someoneβs secret.
She sits on a blooming peony β a fairy.
Light as a dreamβs breath. Real. And impossible.
The light begins with her.
Itβs born in every movement she makes, in every touch, in the way she looks β as if she knows you were once happyβ¦ and could be again.
Itβs the kind of light that warms exactly where it hurts.
The kind that appears when youβve almost stopped waiting.
Sometimes, to find the light, you just have to pause.
And remember β the miracle is within.
π©π‘π²π¬π’πππ₯ π©ππ’π§ππ’π§π , πππ«π²π₯π’π β’ ππ ππ¦
sπ‘π’π©π©π’π§π π©ππ’π π¬ππ©ππ«ππππ₯π²
