midnight
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By daylight she is bottles, laundry, and court paperwork; by moonlight she remembers that creating love inside chaos is its own kind of power.
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At three in the morning, cards slide through the silence while an empty chair seems just a little too occupied.
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The village feared the crows; she listened to them, carrying feathers, wildness, and a name older than the one she was given.
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Lucifer becomes the quiet guardian of unfinished poems, walking through the dark as though it were simply another room.
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The witching hour belongs less to monsters than to women who learned to carry their own light through every shadow.
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Midnight has witnessed the ink, cold coffee, motherhood, ghosts, and every unfinished version of her that found a voice after dark.
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At four in the morning, every cat in the house has a role to play—and none of them involve letting their human sleep.
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At three in the morning, the world goes quiet enough for old houses, moonlight, and sleepless women to remember each other’s names.
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At four in the morning, a kitten wages affectionate war on every available finger before curling into the softness she was searching for.
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Before the rain arrives, a sleepless family walks through a night full of small creatures, quiet streets, and unexpected tenderness.
