The Light Waits in the Hollow

The afternoon stretches out, a long middle where the routine feels heavy and the silence in the hallway is louder than any noise. You hear the key turn in the lock out of habit, a muscle memory of hope, and your heart drops when you remember they aren't coming home.

That hollow space in your chest is not a sign that the light has left — it is the very place where the light is waiting to be recognized. The kingdom grows like a mustard seed, unseen and silent, even while you are just getting through the hour.

You do not have to force the grief to make sense or hurry the healing. The light is not afraid of your empty rooms or your mistaken expectations.

It sits with you in the quiet, refusing to leave you alone in the middle of the day. The door is not locked against you; it is open for the one who stands there still.