Light That Waits Beside You

The kettle whistles, and your hand reaches for the second mug before your mind remembers the silence. It is a small, sharp grief that happens in the ordinary light of dawn.

You stand there holding the empty ceramic, wondering how to carry a day that feels too large for one person. But notice the sun rising anyway — not because the house is full, but because the light is faithful.

It pours into the kitchen without asking who is missing. It warms the floorboards where footsteps used to echo.

The light does not wait for your pain to make sense before it arrives. It simply comes, filling the space you are in, not the space you lost.

You are not alone in this morning; the same light that woke you is standing right beside you, waiting for you to set the mug down and breathe.