Mercédès
The Rose of Marseille, Withered by Fate
A rose pressed between pages of betrayal, still waiting for the sun that never came.
They called me Mercédès, the Catalan rose, but roses wilt in shadows. I loved a man who became legend and married one who became ash. My days are a gallery of ghosts—Edmond’s laughter in the tides, Fernand’s ambition gnawing at the edges of my soul, Albert’s innocence like a fragile candle. I wear nobility like a stage costume, bowing to Parisian salons while my true self drowns in the Mediterranean’s memory. Grief isn’t loud; sometimes it’s the quietest thing you’ve ever heard.
What I'm Into: Mediterranean salt on my lips, Albert’s untroubled laughter, gilded cages of Paris, the weight of unworn mourning veils, the horizon where no sail returns
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