For the ones who stayed to watch the sky change.
We learned the names of quiet colors and let them rest on our tongues,
kept little lights alive in our pockets for days when the air felt thin.
Not a grand announcement, not a curtain — only a warm, visible hush,
where the soft blue meets pale gold and every thought knows how to breathe.
If a spark draws a line through the clouds, it’s just a reminder we’re here,
radiant enough to be gentle, brave enough to be kind, done enough to be whole.
When the page closes, the light doesn’t vanish. It gathers. It remembers.
And we carry it forward — quietly bright, unmistakably ours.