The stone cross broke. Ivy clung stubbornly. Once a token of faith, now a symbol of loss. She bore the cross. Broken as her dreams, ivy-gilded as her secrets. It spoke to an old love, now shattered. But still, the ivy persisted. It was more than a vine. It was resilience, growth from pain. It was her. From the outside, the church remained true. Cross and vine, a public display of her private plight. Yet she bore it, stone by stone, leaf by leaf. She was the cross, the ivy. Broken, yet persisting. Seemingly defeated, yet triumphantly resilient.