The Ember Hour

For anyone who's felt the fire dim.

There are seasons where the light goes quiet.
Not out — but low.
Not because we want it that way, but because life hits hard, and fast, and doesn’t ask if we’re ready.

Maybe you’ve been there.
Maybe you’re there now.
When the days blur. When you lose something you didn’t think you could live without.
When everything stable starts to shift, and you're not sure what version of yourself will come out the other side.

For me?
The last months have been a storm.
A relationship unraveling.
A goodbye I didn’t want.
A dog I loved more than most people — gone.
And in the last few weeks, the kind of disruption that rearranges you from the inside out.

I stopped writing.
Not out of apathy, but because I was carrying the ember through the wind, trying to keep it alive.
And that took everything.

But here’s the thing:
The ember didn’t go out.
And if you’ve got even a flicker left — you can start again.
Not with fire.
Not yet.
But with breath. With presence. With the whisper of heat still alive in your hands.

So this is me. Coming back.
Not shouting. Not burning.
But holding the ember steady again.

The Burn returns.

We go.

— R.

---