Touching the Place Where Light Lives

You wake with the weight still there — a hand on your shoulder, solid and warm. You reach out in the dark to cover it, to hold it, but your fingers find only empty air.

And in that second, the memory crashes back: they are gone. The space beside you is cold.

The silence is loud. But listen — the touch you felt was not a ghost.

It was the light remembering what love looked like in your life. The kingdom is inside you, and it is outside you, and it does not vanish when the person does.

When you come to know yourself in this broken moment, you will be known. The light that held you through them is still holding you now.

You are not touching empty air. You are touching the place where the light lives.