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On a quiet hill, the old castle sits, forgotten and alone. Its walls are cracked, covered in ivy, and the floors inside are dusty and empty. The moat is dry now, just dirt and weeds, and birds rests where soldiers once stood guard. It’s sad(?), in a way, but there’s also something peaceful about it. The castle has become part of the earth again, like an old friend leaning into the arms of time. It reminds us that even the grandest things fade, but they leave behind a little piece of themselves, a story written in stone. 7 replies
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