Running While They Still Flinch

The sun is up, but the shadow of last night's flinch still hangs in the room. You reached out with open arms, and they recoiled, bracing for a blow that never came.

That moment carved a canyon in your chest wider than any words could bridge. The light does not scold you for the history written in their muscles.

It simply sits with you in the quiet of this new morning. The father in the old story did not wait for the son to unlearn his fear before running to meet him — he ran while the boy was still flinching.

Your steady presence today is that same running. It is the quiet proof that the hand extended now is not the hand from before.

The light is rewriting the reflex, one gentle sunrise at a time.