𝐵𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓎 𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝓎𝓂𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓃𝓎𝓌𝒶𝓍𝑒𝒹 𝓁𝓎𝓇𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓈𝒶𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝒻𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝒸𝒽𝑜𝑒𝓈𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓇𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑜𝓁𝑜𝑔𝓎 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝑔𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓎

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,...