letters that staved
Yours in crooked shelves,
Yours in every page,
Yours in softness,
Y.
Franc read the letter twice, each word resonating with a truth that was both familiar and profound. Then he pressed it to his chest, feeling the warmth of Yam’s words seep into his very being. No words for a while—just the fan spinning lazily above, the mural listening with silent wisdom, the studio holding the moment in its embrace.
When Franc finally spoke, his voice was a gentle whisper, filled with a newfound clarity. “I didn’t know I needed this,” he admitted, his eyes meeting Yam’s with a gratitude that words could not capture.
Bab Populer