The Quiet Hour
The clock ticks soft in the quiet hour, when the world is asleep and I've no one to call. The city hums beneath its iron tower, and I am small — yet standing tall. Loneliness knocks, but I don't let it in; I've learned the echo of my own skin. These empty rooms have taught me this: to be alone is not to be amiss. I brew my tea, I dim the light, I make my peace with the falling night. For in the silence, soft and deep, I find the dreams I mean to keep. Alone, not lonely. 🌙