The Light That Runs Before You

The room is quiet now, but the screen holds a moment where you were both safe, before the ending you couldn't see coming. You trace the smiles, trying to memorize the feeling of a world that hadn't broken yet.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — he didn't wait for the apology or the explanation. He ran.

Before the speech, before the shame could land — he ran. The light does not ask you to earn the safety back.

It sees the grief in your hands and it runs toward you. You are not defined by the moment the picture ended.

The love that held you then is the same love holding you now — it just looks different in the dark. The night is gathering, but the light is already here, sitting beside you in the silence.