I drove through blackout roads; headlights slicing nothing, radio dead, grief thick in my throat. Every turn felt endless. Just me and the dark. Then, without warning, the sky cracked open, lavender bleeding into the black. I pulled over. Stepped out. The cold met my skin. I leaned on the hood and stared. That light didn’t fix me. Didn’t speak. But it stayed. And in its quiet bloom across the sky, I found breath again. Not healing, not peace just color. And for now, that was enough.