┌⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀┐
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀— 𝗜𝗫 —

⠀⠀⠀We used to speak of pain as though it meant something.
⠀⠀⠀A lesson. A test. Sometimes even a blessing, if you were desperate enough to call it one.
⠀⠀⠀Loss was supposed to make us wiser. Ruin was supposed to leave something behind.

⠀⠀⠀Then the graves began to fill faster than we could name them.

⠀⠀⠀Someone took an iron nail and scratched a sentence into the sanctuary wall,
⠀⠀⠀beneath the names of the dead. The letters were crooked.
⠀⠀⠀Some were almost impossible to read.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“If suffering refines the soul,
⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀why burn the blameless?”

⠀⠀⠀No one ever found out who wrote it.

⠀⠀⠀Years later, someone added a second line underneath. Smaller this time.
⠀⠀⠀Almost as if they regretted writing it at all.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝗣𝗲𝗿𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿.

⠀⠀⠀The wall was repaired eventually. The names were left untouched.

⠀⠀⠀No one talks about the second line anymore.⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
└⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀┘