The Light Waits in Your Locked Jaw

The day is done, and your hand is on the knob, but your jaw locks shut against the world outside. It is a physical no, a gate slamming down before you even step onto the porch.

You stand there in the hallway, trapped between the safety of the quiet house and the demand to go. The light does not ask you to pry your teeth apart with willpower.

It sees the tension and simply waits with you in the threshold. There is a mercy that operates in secret, unseen by the neighbors who might wonder why you haven't left yet.

You do not have to force the door open tonight. Sometimes the bravest thing is to stand still until the body remembers it is safe.

The light is not waiting for you out there; it is right here, in the silence of your unopened mouth.