Peace is often disguised as mundanity but we truly only realize the importance of a normal Sunday once Sunday leaves, or when the house is no longer a home, when the absence suffocates you. It’s in the quiet hum of the refrigerator at midnight, th...

Peace is often disguised as mundanity but we truly only realize the importance of a normal Sunday once Sunday leaves, or when the house is no longer a home, when the absence suffocates you. It’s in the quiet hum of the refrigerator at midnight, the sound you never noticed until the silence grew too heavy to bear. It’s in the weight of an empty chair at the dinner table, where laughter used to sit. The absence echoes louder than any presence ever did, filling corners of rooms that once felt too small for all the warmth they contained. Now they stretch endlessly, hollow and unfamiliar, as if the house itself forgot how to breathe. Grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a quiet unravelling, a slow erosion of everything that once felt eternal and by the time you realize that peace lived in the moments, those moments have already become memories, and memories are poor substitutes for what the heart longs to hold again.