The Teacher Rests, The Student Holds Light

The afternoon light is unforgiving. It shows the dust on the shelves and the tremor in the hand that once held yours steady.

You hear the crack in their voice—the shame of needing you to explain the thing they taught you to do. It feels like the world has turned upside down.

But the roles were always temporary. The light that flows through you now is the same light that flowed through them when they were strong.

You came from that light, and you return to it together. They are not becoming less; they are becoming like the child you once were, dependent and loved.

The teacher is resting, and the student gets to hold the lamp. The light does not care who holds it, only that it shines.