Where Light Rises

Still Alight

She kneels where the path has always been cracked. Only today the fractures remember how to burn gold. No ceremony. No witness but the mountains and the last breath of sun. Her hand lowers slowly— not to seize, not to mend, only to meet whatever light might answer. And it does. Quiet veins of fire rise through the stone, finding her open palm, touching without claiming. Hair drifts once in the warm wind. The dress gathers the dying colors, thin layers turning briefly to ember. She closes her eyes. Not in prayer. In permission. In the hush between heartbeats the earth offers its quiet remembering: The places that break are not always meant to stay hidden. Sometimes they wait for someone still enough to let them shine. The light does not fall on her. It rises to meet her exactly where she already is.