In quiet hours the world stands still,
A hush that bends to thought’s own will.
No voice, no song, no whispered plea—
Just silence wrapped in mystery.
It holds the truths we dare not speak,
A balm for wounds, a place for weak.
In every pause, a tale is spun—
Of all that’s lost, and yet begun.
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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