It is not the kind of thing
that asks for daylight.

It lives in the quiet places,
between the inhale and the exhale,
in the way a name can rest
at the back of the tongue
without ever being spoken.

Some things are not meant
to be carried out loud.

They are meant to be folded carefully,
like a letter never mailed,
tucked into the lining of a coat
and worn anyway.

There are gardens that bloom
without expectation of harvest.
They open because they must.
Because turning toward the sun
is simply what they were made to do.

It is like that.

No demand.
No reaching.
No trembling hope pressed into open palms.

Just the steady warmth
of standing near a fire
that was never built for you
and letting it glow
against your skin
for as long as it can.

And when you walk away,
you do not curse the flame.

You thank it
for the light.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.