A Soul Like This Is Built to Last

There are rooms no one visits.

Corners the sun forgets.

And souls too tender to beg for entry.

But she—

She lives in a place like that.

Not because she was banished.

Not because she disappeared.

But because she chose it.

The world asked for noise—

She offered depth.

The world asked for brightness—

She brought twilight and candlelight instead.

She lives here— not loudly, but fully.

Not in hiding, but in a kind of holy withdrawal.

Where the floor creaks with stories and the air smells faintly of turpentine and yesterday’s lavender.

Light doesn’t knock here.

It leaks in.

This isn’t just a house.

It’s a keeper of rituals.

Curtains breathing like lungs.

Walls that echo with brushstrokes long dried.

The walls here don’t just hold up the house.

They hold her.

They’ve absorbed every unfinished thought, every sigh that never made it to a sentence.

They don’t echo her voice back,

They answer it.

Softly. Like a language made only for her.

Plastered with time and quiet insistence, these walls know the difference between silence and stillness.

They’ve heard her heart louder than her mouth.

Heard the nights she couldn’t cry, and the mornings she painted instead.

The colour on them is not just paint. It’s a residue of emotion.

A trace of every time she stayed, every time she chose to remain when the world knocked too hard.

She’s not confined here.

She’s kept.

By walls that understand how to hold something delicate without breaking it.

Through half-drawn curtains.

Through the bones of old windows.

It slips across her shoulder without asking, settling like a secret on unfinished canvas.

They say she’s reclusive.

But really, she’s just too full.

Of color.

Of noise.

Of softness she never learned to weaponize.

She’s not waiting for the world to come.

She’s busy listening to what the silence has to say.

Sometimes, she paints with fury.

Sometimes, she paints with prayer.

But always, she paints with memory,

the kind too delicate for words, too raw for display.

No, she’s not soft in the way the world expects.

She’s soft like old wood.

Like silk pulled taut.

Like fire that learned to whisper instead of roar.

And when they ask, “What are you building here?”she doesn’t answer.

Because she knows:

A soul like this is built to last.

It doesn’t rush.

It doesn’t explain.

It simply endures with grace, with grit, with a brush dipped in longing and a heart too full to fold.

They say she’s hard to know.

But maybe it’s just that no one ever stayed long enough to learn the language of her shadows.

Because a soul like hers?

It’s stitched with dusk and devotion.

It doesn’t perform. It glows in private.

And where the light doesn’t knock, she doesn’t open the door.

She becomes the door.

The room.

The story they never thought to ask about.

Not lonely.

Not lost.

Just deeply lived— in the kind of silence only the moon ever bothered to answer.

And in that silence,

she is not forgotten.

She is felt.

-Dura Ki Hana