"Ashes in the Morning" | Duvet — Bôa. ̊ ༘ θৎ

The world doesn’t roar for him anymore, and the fire inside him is quieter, almost fragile. Nights stretch long, mornings come heavy, and the weight of solitude presses against his chest like a bruise. The only thing that keeps him awake is the memory of someone he both resents and needs—the kind of memory that doesn’t fade, only lingers like smoke on old sheets.