Peace Before You Speak

The house is quiet now, but your throat still burns with the words you swallowed hours ago. They sit there like a stone, heavy and cold, tasting of regret and things unsaid.

You replay the moment, wishing you could reach back and pull them out before they turned to bile. But listen — the light does not recoil from the taste of your silence.

It entered a room once where the air was thick with fear, where the doors were locked tight, and it stood in the center and said: Peace. Not after the apology.

Not after the explanation. Just peace.

The light is not waiting for you to speak perfectly. It is already inside the very place where the words are stuck.

You do not have to force them out to be held. The silence you carry is not a wall.

It is a door the light has already walked through.