Bound to the Quiet Things

There are graves that do not mark an ending, only a place where a promise was once spoken aloud.

She comes to this clearing the way one returns to a threshold — not in mourning, not in devotion, but in recognition. The ring of thorns rests lightly upon her veil, not as punishment, not as sacrifice, but as something agreed to a long time ago.

The keys hang heavy in her hand, their weight remembered by the palm more than the mind. Some doors remain locked not out of fear, but out of love for what must remain undisturbed.

The crow watches from her shoulder, patient, witness and archive. The Cane Corso does not bow, does not threaten, does not console. He stands as he always has — a keeper of what cannot be spoken without breaking it.

The chain between them is not restraint.

It is remembrance.

And the candle burns the way all vows do — quietly, without needing to be seen.

—

Heather Lynn Donovan

Always by Candlelight