The Hand Reaching Before You Fall

The afternoon stretches out, a long gray hallway where the days blur into one another. You move through the motions, but the meaning has leaked out, leaving you hollow in the middle of the routine.

It feels like you are walking on water, but the wind has picked up and your feet are starting to sink. You cry out, not because you have great faith, but because you have no other choice.

And immediately — before you can finish the sentence, before you can apologize for doubting — a hand reaches out from the light and catches you. It does not ask why you looked down.

It does not lecture you on the physics of storms. It simply holds you up when you cannot hold yourself.

The meaning was never in your ability to walk without sinking. It was in the hand that was already reaching before you fell.