They were out,
lost in the quiet years—
lost to time,
to scars that became skin,
to the stillness
that came after letting go.

No more shaking,
no more fluttering wings
In the depression of the chest.
Just a calm,
earned the hard way.

Something stirred, though:
Not loud,
Not sudden,
just a flicker
soft as breath
and twice as valid.

A tic of the ribcage,
A pulse behind the ribs,
a warning
or an introduction—
it’s hard to say.

The butterflies reappeared,
unannounced,
unapologetic.
Distracted and reckless,
like they’d never left.
Like they’d been sleeping, waiting.

And in that moment—
the silence shattered.
And the heart, once still,
Recalled movement.