The Weary Hour How many nights have you sat alone in the dark, wishing you could reshape the pieces of your reality—because facing another day feels too heavy to bear? Some things hurt in ways you can’t name. It’s not a sharp pain, not something you can point to and say, “Here, this is where it broke.” It’s quieter than that—a heaviness that quietly settles beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to pull you under. You tell yourself it’s just a passing weight, that tomorrow will feel lighter, but some wounds don’t fade with time. Some things stay, no matter how much you wish they wouldn’t. And you wonder—how much longer until it lets you go. How many more nights must you sit with this shadow before clarity finds you—before peace softly returns to a soul grown so weary of waiting? M.