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They walk among us, wrapped in a quiet that intrigues, in a silence that soothes. We think they’ve always been this way, born under a merciful star, spared from opposing winds. But this peace, you have to listen to it closely: it vibrates like metal hammered a thousand times, it echoes with the memory of blows taken, of wounds stitched raw.

A hundred years of inner war means a hundred years of facing one’s own demons. The fear of never being enough, the doubt lodged like a splinter under the skin, the anger that burns inward and consumes more than any external enemy. It’s a hundred years of painful learning: realizing that forgiveness doesn’t free the other, but frees oneself; that falling matters less than refusing to rise; that the hardest battle is not the one fought against the world, but the one waged in the silence of the heart.

Their peace is a silent victory, a fortress without walls, a light that even darkness respects. It is not made of forgetfulness, but of a soothed memory. It does not deny the cracks; it inhabits them. It no longer fears the storm, for it knows that at the end of turmoil, there is always a washed sky, ready to begin again.

And when their eyes meet yours, what you sense is not the arrogance of invulnerability, but the humility of one who has walked through fire and discovered, deep down, they are unbreakable

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