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Beneath the Heavy Sky
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The sky split open, pouring its weight upon him, yet he did not move. The storm was not against his skin but within his chest, a flood of memories he could no longer outrun. Behind him, the motorcycle hummed with silence—restless, like a beast aching to be set free.
He stood at the edge of the water, where the horizon blurred between grief and hope, waiting for the rain to wash away the things he could not say. Every drop was a question, every ripple an answer he feared to face.
And so, beneath the trembling palms and the heavy clouds, he waited—not for the storm to pass, but for himself to begin again.
He stood at the edge of the water, where the horizon blurred between grief and hope, waiting for the rain to wash away the things he could not say. Every drop was a question, every ripple an answer he feared to face.
And so, beneath the trembling palms and the heavy clouds, he waited—not for the storm to pass, but for himself to begin again.