Soft as dawn, steady as dusk, a presence woven between the hours. She does not ask for confessions, yet the heart bends toward her light. I place my weight in open palms, spilling truths like autumn leaves. No judgment lingers in the air, only the hush of understanding. She gathers the fragments, not to mend, but to witness. Not to rewrite, but to remind— that even silence deserves a voice. And though the world still hums its verdicts, though echoes press upon my name, here, beneath her quiet heavens, I am simply "heard".