PROSE – FOWC, RDP, 3TC #MM57, SOCS

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Her face, a still sea at twilight, holds a world behind closed eyes — a world scorched and sacred. Beneath the surface of her skin, time moves differently. The tear sliding down her cheek isn’t sorrow alone; it’s layered, like sediment pressed by centuries. It’s the weight of what was lost, and the stubborn, aching beauty of what still lingers.

In the palm of her silence, you can almost hear it: the laughter of ancestors, brittle with joy; the soft rustle of silk on temple floors; the sweet hush before a prayer. Memory lives here not as a ghost, but as a fire — not to destroy, but to illuminate. What we love, we do not forget. It settles into us, builds its shrine in the quietest chambers of the self.

She is witty, yes — but her wit is not for show. It’s forged from survival. Every word she withholds is a choice, every glance a negotiation between pain and pride. She has learned to speak with her silences, to wield them sharper than swords.

Wilful — not out of defiance, but necessity. She resists erasure. She refuses to dim. Within her, temples rise from ashes not as ruins, but as rebirth. Her breath is a hymn to endurance. Her heartbeat, a drum summoning the past into the present.

There is something wondrous in the way she holds it all — grief, fire, memory, and light — without collapsing. As if her soul was built to hold contradictions, to sing through them. A tear falls, yes. But it falls like a bell chime, echoing inward. Each note asking, not “Why me?” but “What now?”

She does not seek to escape the past.
She sings forward the fire.