The world does not weep loudly—
it exhales.
A slow breath through cracked windows,
a silver thread trampled
but never torn.

What is named cannot be held.
What is loved must be released.
A cup of tea grows cold beside the nameless,
and still,
we sip.

We speak not to fix,
but to feel the shape of silence
with our tongues.
To say:
He suffered again, and no one noticed.
To ask:
Will they save Him next time?

And when the answer is wind,
we do not shout at the sky.
We button our coats,
nod to the ghost beside us,
and walk through the fog
as if it were light.

There is no demand in these lines.
Only witness.
Only the quiet dignity
of one who sees the fall,
but chooses still
to plant
a seed.