Mending is not the work of haste,
but of reverence—
a slow and patient art
that begins in the hush
where loss has settled.

You start where the fabric gives way,
where memory has thinned with time,
and draw the thread with measured grace—
not to disguise the wound,
but to invite it home again.

Each motion is a conversation,
each stitch a vow of tenderness,
a meeting between what was torn
and what still longs to belong.

No pattern returns unchanged.
The seam remembers its breaking,
and yet—
in the soft gleam of gold that traces the divide,
in the way the light now gathers along its edge—
the once-broken becomes luminous.

And when at last you lift it to the light,
you see:
to mend is not to restore what was,
but to honor what remains—
to weave grace through the ruin,
until even the fracture
becomes art.

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