You Are Not Cold, You Are Being Kept

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels like a verdict. You noticed a moment ago that the pain didn't crush you, and now you are terrified that this relief means you have finally turned cold.

That you have become the stone you always feared. But the light does not mistake peace for indifference.

There was a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years, spent everything on doctors, and grew worse—yet she still reached out from the crowd. Her suffering had not hardened her; it had made her desperate for the hem of a cloak.

And the light stopped the whole procession to call her 'Daughter.' Your ability to breathe tonight is not a failure of empathy. It is the space where the light is holding you so you do not break.

You are not cold. You are being kept.