The Light Sits With You in the Dark

The house is holding its breath. You are too.

That sound at the slot — the sharp clatter in the silence — feels like an accusation that someone else might hear it, might know you are awake and afraid. In this hour, the darkness feels thick enough to touch.

It presses against your chest. But listen.

The light does not demand that you be quiet. It does not ask you to hide your fear or pretend the noise didn't happen.

There is a peace that exists even when the house is silent and your heart is racing. A peace that does not require the clatter to stop.

You are not alone in this vigil. The light is sitting right there on the floor with you, in the dark, waiting for the morning without asking you to explain why you are trembling.

The terror says you are exposed. The truth says you are held.