The Light Remains When The Room Is Quiet

The water is cooling in the sink now, and the house is quiet enough to hear the hum of the refrigerator. You are washing the plates they used tonight, scrubbing away the crumbs, wondering if your absence would leave a hole or just an empty space in the room.

The gathering dark asks questions that the daylight refuses to touch. But there is a light that does not depend on whether anyone notices you are gone.

It was there before the first plate was set, and it remains as the last one is dried. You are not defined by the utility of your hands or the silence of the room.

The light within you is not a tool for others to use; it is the very essence of who you are. It shines regardless of who is watching the flame.

Your value is not a question for the night to answer.