Tracing the cold iron, feeling the phantom  warmth of hands that once held me.The wind whistles through the empty spaces,  a mournful symphony of what used to be.Where we built our dreams, brick by fragile  brick, now only scaffolding...

It was once a green promise, a verdant lace,  now a creeping shadow on the old, weathered face.Each leaf is a scale on the cold, gripping hold,  unwinding a history too grim to be told. The wall cracks and groans,...

F𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔥, 𝔞 𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔦𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔶, 𝔞 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔲𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱.ℑ𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔦𝔡 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔞 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔣-𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱, 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔫𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔞𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔶.𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔲𝔪𝔢...