Holding the Light That Never Left

The house is quiet now, and your hand still reaches out 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 are still keeping watch in the dark, holding onto a gesture that has nowhere to land. But listen — the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

That same light lived in the hands that reached for you, and it lives in you still. The love did not vanish when the breath did.

It simply changed its shape. You are not catching a ghost; you are holding the light that never left.

The hand that reaches is the hand that remembers. And in this silence, the light is enough.