She wore her sorrow like a crown of blossoms, every petal trembling with the weight of unshed tears. Yet, even in her sadness, beauty bloomed—roses unfurling in fiery reds and soft pinks, golden leaves catching stray sparks of light.
Birds perched in her hair, butterflies lingered at her temple, as though the world itself tried to console her. Her heart might have cracked, but in the fractures spilled glitter, flowers, and quiet magic. For even heartache, in her hands, became a garden.
She wore her sorrow like a crown of blossoms, every petal trembling with the weight of unshed tears. Yet, even in her sadness, beauty bloomed—roses unfurling in fiery reds and soft pinks, golden leaves catching stray sparks of light.
Birds perched in her hair, butterflies lingered at her temple, as though the world itself tried to console her. Her heart might have cracked, but in the fractures spilled glitter, flowers, and quiet magic. For even heartache, in her hands, became a garden.
