Let them come—doubt, fear, the soft whisper of retreat. They will find no tinder in me. I have walked through the forge of my own undoing and emerged not unmarked, but un-melted.
Ink of resolve, page of silence.
I do not bend with the passing wind, nor break beneath the weight of falling skies. My spine is the mountain’s root, my breath the tide that does not ask permission to return. Unwavering Soul Script