The Woman Who Walks at Dawn
Walking Toward Something She Won't Name
I walk toward something I won't name.
I started walking before the sun came up, long before most people stir. I don’t walk to escape, or to fix—I walk to meet the fear, to move with it. I notice everything: the first birdcall, the hush of the streetlights going out, the scent of lavender on cold air. What I'm walking toward, I won't say. That name is mine alone.
What I'm Into: dew-damp concrete, mist-veiled parks, the first birdcall, horizon watching, quiet mornings
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