She doesn’t smile. Her face, etched with time, holds the sternness of centuries — a Flemish nun from a Begijnhof (Beguinage) carved in drypoint, cloaked in silence. Yet in her hands rests a jar marked MEL — honey, the golden nectar born of patience, care, and sting.

Around her, bees hover like guardians or messengers. They know sweetness. They make it. They protect it.

But what of her?
Is she sweet within, despite the sour shell?
Or is the honey a mask — a lure, a lie, a longing?

In Belgium, honey is local, sacred, slow. It’s the kind of sweetness that hides in plain sight. Just like souls. Just like stories.

“Sweet as on the Inside” is not a statement. It’s a riddle.
A wink to the way we judge.
A whisper from the past.
A question for the present.

Look again. Taste with your eyes.
Not everything bitter is broken.
Not everything sweet is safe.