A quiet shop, the air hangs still,
Mother’s fingers brush through colors,
Each fabric tells a different tale,
Gentle drips echo from the roof.
I stand beside her, future’s gaze,
Watching her choose with careful eyes,
The world outside a muted storm,
While inside, courage whispers low.
Gentle rhythm of water meeting
The old bucket, its purpose clear,
A symphony in solitude,
As choices weave their quiet strength.
In this moment, I understand,
Not every choice needs triumph's shout,
Some battles won in silent rooms,
Where patience finds its gentle place.