The Quiet Hour

When the world folds into itself, and I am left standing at the edge of silence, I find the hours that belong only to me. Not the hours stolen between meetings, not the fragments caught between notifications, but the whole, unbroken stretch of night. Here, in the quiet hour, thoughts move like water— slow, deliberate, finding their own level. I do not chase them. I do not try to capture what refuses to be held. I simply watch, and wait, and listen. The city sleeps around me, but I am awake in a way that daylight never permits. There is clarity here, in the absence of demand, in the space between one breath and the next. When morning comes, I will return to the noise, to the endless parade of urgency. But I will carry this hour with me— a small, bright stone in my pocket, a reminder that stillness exists, waiting for whoever has the patience to find it.