Under the trees, where shadows fall, the world forgets to rush. book in hand, reads without hurry, her daughter’s fingers sticky with ice cream.
Birds cut through the air without asking, oblivious to the weight of wings, while the bench holds the day still, as if nothing more were needed.
What passes here isn’t grand— just a breath, a glance, a page turning. But the sun leans in, curious, to watch how love, in its smallest gestures, becomes everything.
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