Light That Waits in the Quiet Dark

The house is quiet now, but your hand is heavy with the weight of a phone that no longer lights up for you. You are reading words from a time when the silence hadn't started yet, tracing the shape of a voice that has gone still.

It feels like holding a stone at the bottom of a deep well, wondering why the water won't rise to meet you anymore. But listen — the light does not live in the screen, and it does not depend on a reply to exist.

There is a presence that stands at the door of your heart right now, not to demand entry, but to sit with you in the dark while you grieve what is missing. You are not alone in this room, even if the only sound is your own breathing.

The silence you feel is not the absence of love; it is the space where a different kind of holding begins.