Hush now.
The night is quiet enough to listen.
A room breathes around him.
Wood. Cloth. Warm skin.
The small, ordinary sounds of a world that expects to continue.
A chair rocks.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
A voice hums, low and tired, shaping memory more than melody.
Hark…
the herald—
The words do not finish.
They never quite do.
He is held close, small enough that the world fits in arms meant to ache.
A heart beats near his ear, steady and enduring.
Each beat arrives with weight,
and still goes on.
Peace on earth…
mercy—
The tune falters, corrects itself, continues anyway.
The tide comes quiet, without a name.
Cold light waits beyond the window,
kept outside by glass and habit.
A hand moves along his back, again and again,
tracing the same path as if repetition can hold time in place.
Sleep now.
Nothing needs you yet.
Joyful, all—
The rocking does not stop.
The night does not press closer.
The world remains intact.
If he lets go, will he fall through,
or wake where none of this is true?
The hum deepens, soft and wide,
not sad, not joyful,
just enough to rest inside.
"I love you," the voice whispers.
The song thins.
The words drift apart.
The melody settles into breath.
Between the breath and the rocking,
between the warmth and the quiet,
nothing breaks.
The chair keeps moving.