After the letting go, there was no applause.
Just quiet.
Like the hush after a storm
when the world forgets how to move.
I wandered through the silence,
barefoot on the floorboards of memory,
each step echoing
what used to be.
Grief didn’t roar. It spoke softly.
It was in the scent of old letters.
It was in the way the light fell on the side of the room
I no longer reached for.
I missed your presence,
your laughter—
but I missed the version of me
that didn’t disappear in devotion.
Stillness became my sanctuary.
It was not empty, but sacred. It was a space where
I could hear my own breath.
I believed it belonged to someone who was healing.
