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Shouting in the cathedral isn't an act of despair — it's an act of faith.
It's the sound no one expected, but that the soul needed to release. It's the cry that echoes between the ancient stone columns, among the stained glass windows that have never seen tears, between the saints who don't answer… but listen. It's not a shout of anger. It's a shout of relief. From someone who carried silence for years and, suddenly, could no longer bear the weight of unspoken words. In that vastness of holiness, the shout does not profane — it redeems. Because it's in the quietest homes that the loudest heart rises. And when the sound gets lost among the arches and shadows, it still remains. Like an echo the stone keeps, like a prayer God does not forget, even if no one heard it.



No one knows what you shouted. Maybe not even you know. But the cathedral remembers. It remembers all who came before — mothers who pleaded for their children, lovers who asked for a return, children who just wanted to be heard. And when you shout there, you're not alone. You're in good company. The cathedral doesn't judge. It welcomes. It turns despair into music, lament into chant. Because sometimes, the most sacred thing isn't the whisper of prayer… it's the shout no one dared to let out. And when you let it out, even if only a bird hears it, even if the wind carries it far away… you're no longer trapped. You have been heard.
And that — that's already a miracle.