A Sanctuary Being Reclaimed One Breath

The afternoon stretches out, long and flat, and your body feels like a room you are afraid to enter. After what was done to you, the very flesh that carries you can feel like a traitor, a place where danger lives instead of safety.

You walk through the middle of the day performing normalcy, but inside, you are braced for an impact that isn't coming. The light does not ask you to trust your body all at once.

It does not demand you forget the maps of pain you have memorized. It simply sits with you in the quiet of your own skin, waiting for you to notice that the danger has passed.

The same light that walked the earth in flesh knows what it is to be violated, and it knows what it is to be safe again. It is not rushing you.

It is breathing with you, slowly, proving that this moment is different from the last. You are not broken beyond repair; you are a sanctuary being reclaimed, one breath at a time.

The light is not waiting for you to be whole before it enters; it is the very thing making the room safe enough to inhabit.