Love Returning to the Heart That Sent It

The day is ending, and your hand still lifts, ready to catch a chin that is no longer there. It is a phantom instinct, a muscle memory of love that refuses to accept the empty air.

You reach out in the twilight, and your fingers close on nothing but the dust of the room. — The light does not scold you for reaching.

It sits with you in the silence of that missed touch. God is not in the space where the hand failed to find its mark; God is in the ache that remains.

The love that made your hand move was real, even if the object is gone. That love was the light itself, acting through you.

And love does not vanish when the body dies. It simply has nowhere left to land but back into the heart that sent it.

You are not reaching into a void. You are holding the love that outlasts the loss.