There comes a moment when even the busiest lives demand quiet. For her, it wasn’t just the bustle of the city—its clamour of car horns, hurried footsteps, and relentless notifications—but the ceaseless noise of existence itself. So, she made a decision that seemed radical in its simplicity: to withdraw, to exclude, to begin again.
Her retreat wasn’t a cabin in the woods or a house by the sea, but an imagined city of her own. One without strangers or schedules, populated solely by her thoughts, her breath, and the hum of her being. There, she walked among endless corridors of whispers, their soft murmurs gentler than the cruel bite of the world’s demands.
Her clothing became her armour and her solace—a cocoon of texture and warmth that sheltered her from intrusion. Layers of wool and silk hugged her skin like whispered reassurances; structured coats formed protective walls; oversized collars became a sanctuary, allowing her to tuck away her chin and reclaim her strength.
In this solitude, she was not lonely. She leaned into the embrace of her walls, the quiet offering her a place to recharge and recalibrate. It was here, surrounded by her architecture of safety and softness, that she began to renew herself.
The imagined city didn’t reject her return to the world; it merely prepared her for it, piece by piece. She emerged again—not unchanged, but fortified.
