i held my hands out to the early frost
half-expecting the air to bite back
half-expecting the cold to remember my name
and call me a liar for coming back outside
instead, the ground was just the ground
damp and dark and unconcerned with what i had broken
it made no demands, required no proof
it just held me
i walked until the trees stopped whispering about the dark
until the grey moss gave way to wild clover
and there, tucked inside the curve of an old birch,
was a drop of resin catching the low sun
burning gold, burning completely alive
i touched it with a knuckle
and felt a sudden, terrible warmth
the kind that makes you realize how long you’ve been freezing
without ever knowing you were cold
the world isn’t an empty room
it is a million small doors swinging wide all at once
it is the sudden, reckless bloom of clover through asphalt
it is the river deciding, every single morning,
that it still wants to run toward the sea
i know the spiral will bend downward again
i know the cold will come back to ask for what i owe it
and there will be nights when the water rises to my chin
and i forget how to keep my lungs full
but i am not a ghost who survived the flood
i am someone who learned how to stand on the shore for a moment
look at the sunlight spilling across the moss
look at how simple it is for the sky to turn blue again
i know i will have to go back into the dark someday
i know peace is only ever something we borrow
but right now, the sun is burning my shoulders
and it is enough to have been warm, even just for today
—lyra moon (and the hardest part of surviving the dark is knowing you’ll have to learn to live through it again and again)
august 14, 2026