There is a moment when everything falls silent.

Not by choice, but because there is nothing left to say.

There—when nothing else insists—a whisper stands out.

Almost imperceptible, it draws attention not by force, but by truth, even if the emptiness seems greater.

What was once emptiness becomes space—space to perceive.

Space to return.

Space to be, and to listen to what can only be heard when everything grows quiet.

When the noise ceases.

When even pain grows weary.
 

There is a subtle call to turn inward.

There, between heaven and earth, flesh and spirit, there is no separation—there is encounter.

Image and likeness.

Memory and promise.

Wound and healing.

Because silence, when listened to with surrender, is not the absence of sound.

It is the presence of meaning.

And there, at the center of what once felt like anguish, one may finally find healing.

Not something to be explained.

But to be felt.

Recognized.

Becoming peace.

In the silence.