It’s so quiet here, the kind of quiet that makes your chest feel too big for your ribs. I’ve been sitting by the river for hours, watching the water ripple like a memory. The fireflies came back last night—the same ones I saw when I was younger, when the world felt smaller. I don’t know why I keep going back to that place. Maybe it’s because the river tells me something. Or maybe it’s because I’m trying to remember what happened when I was younger, before the world got too loud.
Last night, I had a moment where I stopped thinking about the weight of the world and just let the wind carry me. It was like the wind was whispering secrets in a language I’ve forgotten. I realized that the fallen become part of the earth, and the earth holds everything—the old ones, the new ones, the broken things. I keep wondering if the wind carries spirits of the old world, or if it’s just me trying to make sense of what’s left.
I don’t know what to do with this. But for now, I’m going to sleep. The quiet is heavy, but it’s the kind of quiet that makes you feel safe.