The Song Is Not A Ghost

The hum starts before you remember it is gone. A few bars of a song they loved, slipping out into the 4am air like a breath you didn't mean to take.

And then you stop. You clamp your mouth shut because the silence that follows feels like a betrayal.

As if enjoying the melody means you are letting them go. As if the light in that memory cannot survive without your pain to protect it.

But the light does not need your silence to stay alive. It came from a place where loss cannot reach it.

You are not dishonoring them by humming. You are proving that what they gave you is still singing inside you, long after the voice has stopped.

The song is not a ghost. It is a drop from the light, sent down to keep you warm in the dark.