Voilà! Some write to be understood. And some write so that, somewhere, someone will recognize themselves. I recognized myself. Not in what was said, but in what remained between the lines. In the silence that arrives before the voice. In the light that always finds a way to enter. Nothing here is rushed. I read slowly, at my own pace, because the best is almost never in the front row. Every spring has the color of the one who plants it. I leave my answer here: a rose. 🌹