the way the light caught the dust motes dancing when she finally looked up… like the air itself was celebrating her survival. i almost missed it. that flicker of something untamed in her eyes. i think that's what people are really reaching for, when they call… not answers, but a witness. someone who sees the dust motes, too and remembers what it felt like to be buried under them, and claw your way back out again… and i am a witness i am always a witness, the ache in my jaw like a secret oath. and there it is that fullness again, singing through me now