Under coats of silence, hands slide their secret, cups gleam like promises — light, deceitful, and discreet. A little ball of hope rolls through the shadow’s line, disappears — and is born again, unseen, in time.
Between fingertips a rhythm taps, taut and slight, a dance of guile and truth, of chance and calculated light. The mirrored table keeps what no one ever sees, a whisper of possibilities that echo endlessly.
The world bends along with every sudden sway, trust nods — and quietly slips away. And behind every motion, beneath each subtle spell, lives a soul still grasping for balance in the swell.
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