We won’t say “Be strong”

as if healing were a race

or pain could be reasoned with.

We know you’ve carried more than most will ever see.

But even in the quiet,

in the hush of your room,

we’re still there—

in thoughts unspoken,

in chords remembered,

in the echoes of music we once shared.

There were joyful days.

Laughter between notes,

melodies traded like secrets

between kindred souls who understood

that rhythm is a kind of language,

and you, a fluent speaker of the heart.

Now, as you rest,

know this:

every silence you dwell in

is filled with the sound of us,

playing softly,

never fading.

We do not ask you to fight.

We only ask that you breathe.

That you listen, when you're ready,

to the song your body still remembers how to sing.

And when you return—

at your own pace,

in your own time—

we will be here,

with music and memory and every gentle thing

that says.

We love you.