Light Sitting With You Beside The Box

The box sits on the floor, taped shut, a small square of silence in the gathering dark. To cut the seal is to admit the move is real, that the old life is not waiting in the next room for you to return.

It is the specific terror of making the temporary permanent. But notice how the light does not demand you empty it all tonight.

It only asks you to sit beside the box in the dimness. The father in the story did not wait for the son to unpack his past before running to meet him; he ran while the dust was still on the road.

The light runs to you now, not to force the lid open, but to sit with you while you decide. You are not defined by what remains inside the cardboard, but by the presence that fills the room around it.

The darkness is just the space where the light learns to shine without a destination.