invisible string

Some things connect people so quietly that you can only hear it between the lines. Like the rustling of grass where books were once read, or the color of a shirt on a summer day when everything still seemed endless. Fate here is not in fanfare, but in a thin thread - almost invisible, but stubbornly golden. It stretches through cities, failures, and funny coincidences: from a mossy yogurt shop to a park where the leaves turn the color of honey.

Sometimes it seems that time is mocking us - cutting us open, then sewing us back up, leaving shiny scars. But there is also comfort in this: in how the past ceases to burn and becomes a reason to laugh and send gifts to the children of those who once hurt us. And suddenly everything falls into place - all the wrong turns, all the detours, all the delays - only to lead you to the place where you find peace. And even if this knot is invisible, one thing is clear: someone tied it with a specific intention.