Rhys let the words settle.
They did not conclude anything. They did not seal the moment or claim it as resolved. They simply named what was already true—and in doing so, released the need to hold it any tighter.
He felt the truth of enough not as satisfaction, but as spaciousness. A condition where nothing pressed to be added, and nothing needed to be removed. Where meaning did not accumulate, but circulated—quietly sustaining what moved through it.
The world received the word without reaction.
It did not affirm.
It did not echo.
It did not crystallize the moment into memory.
It continued.
And that, Rhys understood, was the affirmation.
They walked on.
Not because there was somewhere else to be.
Not because remaining would have diminished what had been.
But because movement, now free of justification, had become a natural expression of being alive.
