The Light Runs Into Your Silence

The sun is up, but the silence in this house feels heavier than the night was. You wake up and realize the space between you is no longer a temporary gap—it is an address.

A permanent place you both inhabit, separately. The morning light does not fix this.

It only makes the empty chair at the table undeniable. But listen—there was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the silence to break. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech—he ran. The light does not wait for the distance to close before it moves toward you.

It runs into the quiet. The dawn is not a demand to pretend the silence isn't there.

It is the promise that the light is already walking the floorboards with you, in the very room where the distance lives. You do not have to fill the space to be held.

You just have to wake up.