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In a garden without light, where red is not life but wound, she holds her heart in her hands like someone carrying a secret that never healed. It beats, but it hurts; it exists, but it weighs. Her white dress, still pure in appearance, cannot hide the invisible cracks that run through her.
In a garden without light, where red is not life but wound, she holds her heart in her hands like someone carrying a secret that never healed. It beats, but it hurts; it exists, but it weighs. Her white dress, still pure in appearance, cannot hide the invisible cracks that run through her.