Homer Poet

Gutemberg Ramsey wants revenge. He is a rich young man who is secretly involved in the criminal underworld. Timmy is in love with his childhood sweetheart, but he doesn't have the courage to confess it. Aaron is a troubled young man with a dark past. And there is the poet, but he is so deep in his own plots that he does not see his own feelings. They all want the same girl, although the reasons are different. One wants revenge. The second wants a chance. The third needs it. The latter wants to use it. Davina is confused, angry, and doesn't know where her sister is. Her parents are separating and everyone wants something from her. She thinks the boys on the Hill will break her, especially Gutemberg, but maybe they will save her.

In the coastal quiet of Baler, a studio is born—not of architecture, but of intention.* Founded by Yam, a poet whose words cradle pain gently, and Franc, an artist who paints tenderness into walls, the studio becomes a refuge for those learning to stay—with grief, love, longing, and themselves. As visitors arrive, they leave behind more than footprints: a sigh recorded in bamboo, a poem tucked into the “Found Letters” shelf, a mural painted in crooked lines. Through zines, tea, silence, and sketchbooks, the studio teaches softness as revolution. Ren creates the *Window of Soft Returns*, an installation of anonymous voice recordings—each whisper forming a community of echoes. Drew builds the *Staircase With No Wrong Turns*, inviting people to walk through emotions without shame. Franc offers brushstrokes as brave work, and Yam curates writing circles that map healing in half sentences. Together, they host festivals that feel like hugs, and they begin traveling their archive, letting softness cross oceans. Even those who once left—like Miguel—return, discovering that some doors never truly close. Others, like Tala, capture the studio’s sound and turn it into a podcast of breath and becoming. Over seventy chapters, the studio transforms into something larger than itself: a mural of memory, a sanctuary for second chances, a place where return is sacred and voice is proof of survival. In the final bloom, the studio stands not as a monument—but as a reminder: > *“Staying isn’t easy. > But chosen together, > it becomes home.”*