Ink-Stained City Secrets

I walked past the old library, the iron gate creaking in the wind, and found myself staring at the worn leather cover of my notebook, its pages already inked with questions I can't yet answer. The city feels like a maze of echoes, each street corner a reminder of choices made and still to be made. Even in these quiet moments, a part of me feels the weight of a secret confession, as if the pen is both my ally and my tormentor. The ink stains on my fingers are a small, stubborn proof that something in me keeps turning, refusing to let the storm outside drown the quiet in my head. #writing #innerstorm 🌌