What Survives Us There’s a silence that doesn’t feel like fear— not quite. More like the weight of time stilled in the corners. Dust gathers in the hands of clocks and saints. Someone calls, but the voice isn’t meant for us. It’s too far from home, too old to carry anything but light. And not the warm kind. This is lantern light, the kind that watches. It waits with fear, holding the quiet we pretend is home. You think you know how to speak to time, but it doesn’t barter. It listens. No voice is louder than the stillness in its hands. We build, we bury, we ask with our hands— markings on stone, offerings to the light, questions left for no one. We raise our voice like it’s a weapon, or a charm against fear. But nothing shifts. Not even time moves when no one remembers the word for home. What a fragile, feral thing is home— not a structure, but what slips through fingers when you stay too long or chase the wrong time. What remains is a trick of light on the wall, not enough to quiet fear, and far too quiet to count as voice. Still we try. We write into the voice that answers back in wind. We call it home though it doesn’t return us. Even fear grows tired, worn down in open hands. And still we keep the lantern lit—our light, our last small protest at the edge of time. Because what else is there to do with time? We can’t contain it. We can’t grant it voice. We only walk beneath its hanging light and hope the hours might carry us home. We gather the names we’ve dropped from our hands and hold them close, to soften the fear. Envoi If there is fear, let it be met with hands. If there is time, let it call us home. If there is voice, let it shine through the light.