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That’s one of the quiet, enduring magics of writing. The more precise the detail, the more it hums with life. And the more it hums, the more it echoes.

Not: a cup of tea on a grey morning.

But: the chipped Manchester United mug your old friend left behind, the one you still use because it fits your hand exactly, and because you haven’t quite brought yourself to throw it out.

That mug isn’t just a mug. It holds friendship, memory, comfort, inertia.

Not: a rainy afternoon in town.

But: the queue outside Greggs where your coat soaked through, your socks went cold in your trainers, and someone behind you lit a cigarette that smelled exactly like your old student flat.

That queue isn’t just a queue. It holds history, belonging, dislocation.

Let the small things carry their weight. Let the detail do the heavy lifting. It is often the tiniest brushstroke that paints the whole portrait.

You are not writing for everyone. You are writing for someone. And they will find you if you tell the truth.

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