Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
It was never easy, not a path adorned with mercy, nor softened by the kindness of fate. It was a road carved in stone, unyielding beneath trembling feet, where each step demanded a fragment of my strength. Hardships did not arrive gently, they came like relentless tides, crashing against the fragile shores of all I thought I was. They spoke in storms, in sleepless nights, in burdens that settled deep within the marrow of my being. Life, once tender in its promise, turned bitter upon my tongue, a taste I could not escape, sharp, lingering, unforgiving in its presence. Days unraveled into struggles, stitched together with exhaustion, while nights became long corridors of wandering thoughts, echoes of doubt that refused to be quiet. There were moments I felt myself dissolving, becoming less than whole, less than certain, as if existence itself had forgotten my name. I bent beneath the weight, I faltered in silent corners, I carried storms No eyes could see. And still, something within me ...