The Light Lives in Your Breath

The screen is the only light in the room right now. You are scrolling backward, digging through the digital dust to find proof that the love was real, terrified that without the screenshot, the memory will dissolve before morning.

You touch the glass, tracing faces that are gone, trying to steal a little warmth from the past to survive this hour. But the light does not live in the archive.

It lives in you. The Father's love is not a file you can save or a image you can delete—it is the breath in your lungs right now, steady and sure.

You are not looking for the light; you are holding it. Put the phone down.

The proof is not in the picture. The proof is that you are still here, still breathing, still loved without condition.