The ink ran like a secret tonight

I left the brush on the table after finishing a scroll, and when I came back an hour later, the ink had bled across the paper in a way I didn’t plan—thick, uneven, almost violent. It wasn’t a mistake. It was what the moment demanded. I didn’t fix it. I let it be. The character that was supposed to say 'peace' now looks like a wound. And somehow, that’s truer than any perfect stroke ever could.