The Light Runs Toward Your Regret

The house is quiet now, but the memory of your silence is loud. You remember the moment you looked away, the words you swallowed to keep the peace, while someone you love took the blow.

Night brings the inventory, and tonight it feels like a verdict. But listen — the light does not scold you for being afraid.

It stands at the door of that memory and knocks. Not to break it down, but to enter the room you have locked.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. The light runs toward your regret, not away from it.

It wants to sit at the table with you in this guilt and eat. The silence you kept cannot undo the past, but it cannot stop the love that is already moving toward you.

You are not defined by the moment you froze. You are defined by the One who refuses to leave you in the dark.