Still Here (Presence)

There are stories that begin with thunder—loud, unmistakable, demanding attention. This is not one of them. This story begins in the hush after the storm. In the breath held between loss and life. In the quiet moments when the world doesn't end, but doesn't quite begin again either. It is the story of what remains. Of chairs left empty, of tea gone cold, of voices remembered more in silence than in sound. It is the story of grief not as an ending, but as a doorway. Of loneliness not as failure, but as a tender invitation to meet yourself anew. Here, you will not find resolutions. You will find rituals—small ones. A hand on a windowsill. A whisper to the body. A glance at a stranger that says, "I see you." This is the story of staying. Of learning to inhabit the spaces absence leaves behind. Of discovering that presence is not always loud, and healing is not always linear. It is a story for anyone who has ever wondered if they could survive the silence. Not by escaping it—but by listening to what it has to say. Welcome to the quiet becoming.