Anna Lessines Brothel ❤️

About Namur

Once heard a story—girl escaped brothel, 1800s. Hid in church, dressed as nun—badass! We swears, that’s gold—beats hobbit feet runnin’. Happy for her, precious—screw the chains! But some nights, brothel’s loud—moans, fights, bottles smashin’. Reminds me, “What’s behind the curtain?” Chaos, man—pure chaos.

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The neighborhoods, well, they're quirky. There's a part by the old mill. Oi, the mill, with its creaky wheel and that old river nearby, the Sambre, gently murmuring secrets of yesteryears. I often sit by that river – dipping my toes, sulking about the absurdities of love and life… sometimes whispering, “Stupid, fat hobbit!” to the ripples, just for kicks. The park near here, Parc du Moulin, is my little haven. At night, the trees become witnesses to tender confessions – a little slice of magic where even the shadows seem to smile.

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