The Light Sits in the Quiet
The key turns in the lock out of habit, a muscle memory that moves faster than your grief. Then the silence hits, and your heart drops when you remember the room is empty.
The mask you wear for the world says you are fine, but the light sees the performance and loves the person crumbling behind it. It does not ask you to fix the hollow space or pretend the absence isn't loud.
It simply sits with you in the quiet, knowing that even this forgotten moment is held. The light was there before the key turned, and it remains now that the door is closed.
Drawing from
Matthew 6:18, Gospel of Thomas 3
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