Charlotte “Lotte” Vale
@espressoprose.bsky.social
A place where words meet wonder. I write a little, read a little more, and drink a lot of coffee—fueling musings on life, stories, and everything in between. Sip, dream, and linger awhile.
All photos and writings are my own unless I state otherwise.
All photos and writings are my own unless I state otherwise.
Weight of Quiet
Pain moves quietly,
a shadow beneath the skin,
a whisper in the chest
that no one else can hear.
It bends the air,
tilts the light,
and lingers in the spaces
between breaths.
It does not need a name,
or a reason,
or an audience.
It simply is,
and I simply am
with it.
Pain moves quietly,
a shadow beneath the skin,
a whisper in the chest
that no one else can hear.
It bends the air,
tilts the light,
and lingers in the spaces
between breaths.
It does not need a name,
or a reason,
or an audience.
It simply is,
and I simply am
with it.
December 5, 2025 at 3:59 AM
Weight of Quiet
Pain moves quietly,
a shadow beneath the skin,
a whisper in the chest
that no one else can hear.
It bends the air,
tilts the light,
and lingers in the spaces
between breaths.
It does not need a name,
or a reason,
or an audience.
It simply is,
and I simply am
with it.
Pain moves quietly,
a shadow beneath the skin,
a whisper in the chest
that no one else can hear.
It bends the air,
tilts the light,
and lingers in the spaces
between breaths.
It does not need a name,
or a reason,
or an audience.
It simply is,
and I simply am
with it.
Language holds what memory frays. It catches what emotion blurs.
It’s not always elegant. Sometimes it limps. Sometimes it breaks open.
But it is mine. And in writing, I am not voiceless.
In writing, I exist on purpose.
It’s not always elegant. Sometimes it limps. Sometimes it breaks open.
But it is mine. And in writing, I am not voiceless.
In writing, I exist on purpose.
December 4, 2025 at 5:11 AM
Language holds what memory frays. It catches what emotion blurs.
It’s not always elegant. Sometimes it limps. Sometimes it breaks open.
But it is mine. And in writing, I am not voiceless.
In writing, I exist on purpose.
It’s not always elegant. Sometimes it limps. Sometimes it breaks open.
But it is mine. And in writing, I am not voiceless.
In writing, I exist on purpose.
Travel to somewhere I’ve never been, yet somehow already miss. Standing in these places, I’m reminded that history isn’t just a subject I studied. It’s the water I swim in, the scaffolding beneath my imagination, the invisible thread tying me to people I will never meet.
December 3, 2025 at 5:01 AM
Travel to somewhere I’ve never been, yet somehow already miss. Standing in these places, I’m reminded that history isn’t just a subject I studied. It’s the water I swim in, the scaffolding beneath my imagination, the invisible thread tying me to people I will never meet.
Sometimes I think we travel not just to see new places, but to feel that thin veil between ourselves and the ones who came before. To be reminded we aren’t so different. That we’re part of a long, unbroken thread of human hope, human grief, human tenderness.
#travel #dresden
#travel #dresden
December 1, 2025 at 3:12 AM
My sister and I in Schwalbach
on my first trip to Germany visiting Tante Anni and Onkel Helmut. (I’m on the right.)
Even then, I never wanted to leave Germany.
Some places hold you long before you understand the reason.
on my first trip to Germany visiting Tante Anni and Onkel Helmut. (I’m on the right.)
Even then, I never wanted to leave Germany.
Some places hold you long before you understand the reason.
November 29, 2025 at 6:56 PM
My sister and I in Schwalbach
on my first trip to Germany visiting Tante Anni and Onkel Helmut. (I’m on the right.)
Even then, I never wanted to leave Germany.
Some places hold you long before you understand the reason.
on my first trip to Germany visiting Tante Anni and Onkel Helmut. (I’m on the right.)
Even then, I never wanted to leave Germany.
Some places hold you long before you understand the reason.
You’re not lost, love.
You’re suspended.
Between the grey of the sky
and the grey beneath your ribs,
where everything echoes
and nothing answers.
Am I here,
am I there,
or am I just the space between
what hurts
and what hopes?
You’re suspended.
Between the grey of the sky
and the grey beneath your ribs,
where everything echoes
and nothing answers.
Am I here,
am I there,
or am I just the space between
what hurts
and what hopes?
November 29, 2025 at 1:17 AM
You’re not lost, love.
You’re suspended.
Between the grey of the sky
and the grey beneath your ribs,
where everything echoes
and nothing answers.
Am I here,
am I there,
or am I just the space between
what hurts
and what hopes?
You’re suspended.
Between the grey of the sky
and the grey beneath your ribs,
where everything echoes
and nothing answers.
Am I here,
am I there,
or am I just the space between
what hurts
and what hopes?
Ha! A ray of sunshine ☀️ Well, there’s a first time for everything 😂
November 29, 2025 at 12:53 AM
Ha! A ray of sunshine ☀️ Well, there’s a first time for everything 😂
A ray of sunshine through my window. A bit blinding for a moment.
I tend to favor grey and drizzle.
But a bit of brightness is welcome every so often.
I tend to favor grey and drizzle.
But a bit of brightness is welcome every so often.
November 28, 2025 at 10:18 PM
A ray of sunshine through my window. A bit blinding for a moment.
I tend to favor grey and drizzle.
But a bit of brightness is welcome every so often.
I tend to favor grey and drizzle.
But a bit of brightness is welcome every so often.
Sunlight finally broke through long November rain,
and in that brief gold of morning,
my small-leaf maple showed her quiet defiance.
She clings to her leaves with a kind of stubborn grace, refusing to surrender them to autumn’s breath.
and in that brief gold of morning,
my small-leaf maple showed her quiet defiance.
She clings to her leaves with a kind of stubborn grace, refusing to surrender them to autumn’s breath.
November 28, 2025 at 8:14 PM
Sunlight finally broke through long November rain,
and in that brief gold of morning,
my small-leaf maple showed her quiet defiance.
She clings to her leaves with a kind of stubborn grace, refusing to surrender them to autumn’s breath.
and in that brief gold of morning,
my small-leaf maple showed her quiet defiance.
She clings to her leaves with a kind of stubborn grace, refusing to surrender them to autumn’s breath.
Tender, haunting fall
every leaf a small goodbye
gathered at my feet
every leaf a small goodbye
gathered at my feet
November 27, 2025 at 4:39 AM
Tender, haunting fall
every leaf a small goodbye
gathered at my feet
every leaf a small goodbye
gathered at my feet
Sharp needles, soft wool
the tension between the two
holds me together.
the tension between the two
holds me together.
November 27, 2025 at 4:29 AM
Sharp needles, soft wool
the tension between the two
holds me together.
the tension between the two
holds me together.
And yet,
I go on.
Not always with grace,
but with the determined softness
of someone who has learned
that even sorrow must be cradled,
not conquered.
So when you ask how I am,
know this:
I am a woman walking through weather.
I am made of mist and breath and remembering.
I am here.
I go on.
Not always with grace,
but with the determined softness
of someone who has learned
that even sorrow must be cradled,
not conquered.
So when you ask how I am,
know this:
I am a woman walking through weather.
I am made of mist and breath and remembering.
I am here.
November 26, 2025 at 5:06 AM
And yet,
I go on.
Not always with grace,
but with the determined softness
of someone who has learned
that even sorrow must be cradled,
not conquered.
So when you ask how I am,
know this:
I am a woman walking through weather.
I am made of mist and breath and remembering.
I am here.
I go on.
Not always with grace,
but with the determined softness
of someone who has learned
that even sorrow must be cradled,
not conquered.
So when you ask how I am,
know this:
I am a woman walking through weather.
I am made of mist and breath and remembering.
I am here.
Sometimes beauty waits for you on the familiar path,
the one you barely think about,
quiet, unassuming, present.
It isn’t reserved for rarity.
It’s here, in the soft scatter of leaves,
in the gold hush of the season,
reminding you that wonder has never been hiding,
only waiting to be seen.
the one you barely think about,
quiet, unassuming, present.
It isn’t reserved for rarity.
It’s here, in the soft scatter of leaves,
in the gold hush of the season,
reminding you that wonder has never been hiding,
only waiting to be seen.
November 26, 2025 at 3:27 AM
Sometimes beauty waits for you on the familiar path,
the one you barely think about,
quiet, unassuming, present.
It isn’t reserved for rarity.
It’s here, in the soft scatter of leaves,
in the gold hush of the season,
reminding you that wonder has never been hiding,
only waiting to be seen.
the one you barely think about,
quiet, unassuming, present.
It isn’t reserved for rarity.
It’s here, in the soft scatter of leaves,
in the gold hush of the season,
reminding you that wonder has never been hiding,
only waiting to be seen.
I let my fingers work the yarn,
slow loops and twists,
the rhythm of stitch and breath,
the ache and warmth tangled together,
and in the soft weight of wool,
I find a piece of me returning,
folded into the season,
folded back into myself.
Knit of the day.
#knitting #blueskyKnits
slow loops and twists,
the rhythm of stitch and breath,
the ache and warmth tangled together,
and in the soft weight of wool,
I find a piece of me returning,
folded into the season,
folded back into myself.
Knit of the day.
#knitting #blueskyKnits
November 25, 2025 at 1:48 AM
I let my fingers work the yarn,
slow loops and twists,
the rhythm of stitch and breath,
the ache and warmth tangled together,
and in the soft weight of wool,
I find a piece of me returning,
folded into the season,
folded back into myself.
Knit of the day.
#knitting #blueskyKnits
slow loops and twists,
the rhythm of stitch and breath,
the ache and warmth tangled together,
and in the soft weight of wool,
I find a piece of me returning,
folded into the season,
folded back into myself.
Knit of the day.
#knitting #blueskyKnits
Saturday moves like honey.
Fall leans close, whispering in amber tones.
The scent of pancakes wanders through the room
as I cradle my coffee, steady and warm.
Fall leans close, whispering in amber tones.
The scent of pancakes wanders through the room
as I cradle my coffee, steady and warm.
November 22, 2025 at 6:22 PM
Saturday moves like honey.
Fall leans close, whispering in amber tones.
The scent of pancakes wanders through the room
as I cradle my coffee, steady and warm.
Fall leans close, whispering in amber tones.
The scent of pancakes wanders through the room
as I cradle my coffee, steady and warm.
„Mein liebstes Warmes.“
November 21, 2025 at 5:08 AM
„Mein liebstes Warmes.“
Time to get started.
November 21, 2025 at 3:12 AM
Time to get started.
These red leaves ignite the branch from beneath,
small flames licking at the hem of the year.
There is no spectacle here.
Only the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly
a bright, trembling defiance
against the season’s gentle fade.
small flames licking at the hem of the year.
There is no spectacle here.
Only the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly
a bright, trembling defiance
against the season’s gentle fade.
November 18, 2025 at 7:44 AM
These red leaves ignite the branch from beneath,
small flames licking at the hem of the year.
There is no spectacle here.
Only the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly
a bright, trembling defiance
against the season’s gentle fade.
small flames licking at the hem of the year.
There is no spectacle here.
Only the kind of beauty that reveals itself slowly
a bright, trembling defiance
against the season’s gentle fade.
Or just stay here a little longer,
where the world first paused
and let love begin.
where the world first paused
and let love begin.
November 15, 2025 at 8:53 PM
Or just stay here a little longer,
where the world first paused
and let love begin.
where the world first paused
and let love begin.
‘Verloren im Dunst‘
November 15, 2025 at 7:35 PM
‘Verloren im Dunst‘
Not every binding is a burden. Some hold me exactly where I need to be. 💛🖤
November 14, 2025 at 12:46 AM
Not every binding is a burden. Some hold me exactly where I need to be. 💛🖤