Literary

It was half a decade ago when something died. A foul smell led you to the garden, and horror clicked in softly—like a distant memory returning without a name.

Do you still remember the first time you noticed the sun was moving—as if it breathed life too?

Sometimes, I wonder how many quiet stories pass me by each day—how many lives brush against mine without a single word.

A canvas contains the framework of life. It speaks, creates, mourns—and what more?—preserves.

She was tied to a silver string pulling her back to a melancholic place;

There’s a bookshop—a magical one—where books whisper about stories.

Every single thing ends with a dot.

Do you think it's beautifully tragic? Or tragically beautiful? To be a hoarder of memories—someone who holds on too tightly, scared to let go, afraid to forget.

It’s in my new home where I learned, About psychology and its concern.