Morning slipped into the palace quietly, sunlight pooling along the marble floors and climbing the walls as if it had all the time in the world. The air still carried the weight of yesterday, not loud or dramatic anymore, just present. Like the smell of rain after a storm that had passed but refused to be forgotten.
Some nights did that. They ended, but they did not leave. Aksh came down already dressed, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, movements automatic. The palace was waking up around him, staff moving in practiced silence, doors opening and closing softly. Life, continuing.
For the Flame to Burn, It Needs a Spark These words—these poems, musings, echoes of soul—they are pieces of me, offered to the void. If they’ve ever stirred something in you, made silence feel understood or chaos feel poetic… Then let your support be the wind beneath this fire. A small gesture. A mighty impact. Because art survives on love—and the occasional coffee. ☕✨
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