Sometimes the first note isn’t heard.

Sometimes it’s only felt — a warmth deep in the root, a pulse through the heart you didn’t know was waiting.

Recognition rarely arrives like a trumpet call. It begins as the gentlest hum beneath your day, a memory older than time brushing against the edges of now.

If something in you has been stirring quietly, let it. Don’t rush to name it. Love knows how to find its own voice. The music will come.

💜🖤 Monet Noctaris