THE WOUND BENEATH THE GLASS The flesh is a stone resting beneath the patient's hands of time. Rain may strike it. Wind may bruise it. Yet season after season, it learns again the quiet strength of standing. The heart is not a stone. It is a pane of crystal holding the sunrise within its silence. One careless hand, one faithless word, one shattered promise, and a fracture is born where no eye can wander. The body buries its pain like autumn burying fallen leaves. The soul carries its sorrow like broken glass hidden beneath clear water, waiting for an unsuspecting memory to walk barefoot across its edge. Many heal beneath bandages. Many bleed beneath their smiles. The deepest cries are often wrapped inside the quietest voices. So weigh your words as though they were light falling upon fragile glass. A scar upon the skin may become only a story. A scar upon the soul may become the silence a lifetime cannot translate. The skin remembers pain only until it heals, but the soul remembers every hand that ever taught its heart how to break.