The Light Rises Even in Empty Beds

The sun is just beginning to gray the edges of the night, and your hand reaches out across the mattress before your mind has fully woken. You are searching for a warmth that is no longer there.

The cold sheets feel like a verdict, a sudden silence where a voice used to be. But listen — the light does not depend on the hand you cannot hold.

It is rising anyway. It is filling the room whether the bed is empty or full.

You made it through the darkest hour, and that is not an accident. It is an act of faith you didn't know you were performing.

The phantom touch is real grief, but it is not the final truth. The truest thing in this room is not the absence you feel, but the presence that woke up with you.