Beneath the stars, with nothing said,
They speak through eyes, not voice or thread.
No choir sings, no echoes loud—
Just hearts that beat beneath a cloud.
No need for ink, nor sacred rite,
Their promise lives in quiet night.
A whispered hush, a steady brow—
Eternal love, their silent vow.
In Brighton town where sea winds blow, A man walked slow where seagulls go, He heard the waves, the rustling trees, The whispered truths...
Tom Jarvis lived in a modest flat above a bakery in Hove, the kind that always smelled like warm croissants and burnt toast. His life was...
In the heart of a city that never stopped speaking—where car horns sang in discord, voices tangled in every corner café, and screens...
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