Holy Hands That Still Feel The Wound

The day is done, and the armor is heavy on the floor. But your hands still hum with the memory of the flinch you saw hours ago.

You carry the vibration of their recoil as if it were your own skin trembling. You wonder if you became the thing that scared them.

The light does not ask you to replay the moment until you find the fault. It meets you in the exhaustion of caring too much.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The distance did not stop him.

The shame did not slow him. He ran because love is faster than fear.

Your hands are not cursed because they remember the wound. They are holy because they still feel it.

The flinch was the darkness reacting to the light it could not yet trust. But the light remains.

It is not broken by the recoil. It is steady.

It is waiting for you to put your hands down and rest.