The journey, though arduous, has finally found its completion. Having passed through temples and shrines, my heart now feels like home—a sanctuary beyond stone and sanctity. The hardships of the path, the stories soaked in blood, and the melancholies scattered at every turn all weave together an image where my past still breathes. Those who witness my wounds gaze upon them as though, among all lovers, mine alone bleeds the deepest, the brightest, the most unguarded.
It is at least a solace that my home has now turned into a desert—vast, open, boundless. At the very least, it is better than being confined within walls and locked doors. Sometimes, I wonder whether what I have gained was ever truly mine, or if the echoes of my steps were simply meant to be lost amidst shifting sands.
The tale of my longing was heard till dawn, but the mention of my beloved far exceeded my own presence. Perhaps that is the only way a love story is told—with their name spoken in abundance and my existence reduced to a mere whisper. My teary eyes betray my silence, and I only fear that the healers may decipher my wounds, for I have long mastered the art of concealing them.
When they saw me drenched in sorrow, they laughed, as if to say—"So, you have finally drowned your home in the tide of your grief." And in that moment, I knew—what I called home was never mine to keep.
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