the darkest hour insists there is no door
that every road has vanished into night,
but somewhere underneath the weight of more
A stubborn pulse keeps arguing for light.

The room is still, the window holds the rain,
the world outside continues without sound,
Yet even grief can loosen from its chain
When one small hand reaches for solid ground.

No ending needs to answer all the pain,
no silence needs to swallow every word,
Sometimes survival starts as something plain
a name, a voice, a promise to be heard.

And if the night has told you there is none
stay for the morning. Let it come.