In a city that forgets… one sentinel remembers.
Perched on a ledge carved by time and shadow… the blackbird stands sentinel.
Its beak is open, but no sound escapes.
It does not sing—it listens.
To the wind.
To the stone.
To the stories that still echo through the cathedral walls behind it.
The architecture stands like a monument to both devotion and decay.
Arched windows shimmer with the residue of prayers…
Their stained-glass eyes watching inward.
The spires reach skyward, as if grasping for something lost—
Something divine… or perhaps simply human.
Red roses bloom where no roots should thrive.
Their petals are too vivid, too alive—
As if fed by memory rather than soil.
Some say they mark a grave.
Others believe they grow from longing itself.
Whatever their origin… they do not wilt.
They endure.
The blackbird guards this place—
Not with force, but with presence.
It is the watcher of thresholds…
The keeper of quiet truths.
It knows the weight of promises made in silence
It has seen love bloom and vanish.
It has felt the tremble of souls passing through.
This is not a place of answers.
It is a place of echoes.
Some who pass beneath feel a chill.
Others feel peace.
But all sense something—
An awareness.
A gaze.
A hush that settles deep in the bones.
The bird does not move…
Yet it speaks to those who listen.
It says:
“Even in silence… you are seen.
Even in stillness… you are sacred.”
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