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There’s something about October that invites a slower kind of breath. The leaves don’t fall; they release. The light doesn’t fade; it softens. And in that hush, I find myself returning to the novel, not as its author, but as its witness.
This season, the story feels different. More tender. More earned.
The emotional arc of the book now mirrors the trees outside my window; what once burned bright now curls inward, asking to be held. If you’ve read it, you know the moment I'm referring to. That...
Dear Reader,
This book began as a whisper; letters breathed into the spaces between healing and hope. I never dreamed they’d one day find your hands. Each page cradles a piece of my heart; perhaps, in these quiet words, you’ll find your own echo.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for feeling.
Gabrielle A. Hunter