The Light Calls You Home

The day is ending, and the silence is finally loud enough to hear your own name. It startles you.

Not because it is unfamiliar, but because you spent twelve hours answering to someone else—the person you built to survive the morning, the mask that smiled when you wanted to scream. Now the armor is on the floor, and the panic sets in: who am I when no one is watching?

The light does not scold you for the performance. It knows you were tired.

It knows you were trying to be safe. In the gathering dark, the Father is not looking for the version of you that got things right today.

He is waiting for the one who is finally done pretending. The mask was heavy.

You do not have to wear it here. The light sees the face beneath the exhaustion, and it calls you by the name you forgot you had.