The Pause on the Ridge

High on the ridge, a house keeps its silence. Not empty, listening.

The land here leans toward the water, toward that thin place where ground gives way to breath, and thought loosens its grip. Wind passes through the grasses. Mist settles and lifts again. Time moves differently. This is a place between arrival and leaving. Between the weight of despair and the smallest decision to stay.

Once, a presence lived here—not to watch from above, but to remain. To stand quietly at the edge of moments too heavy to hold alone. No grand gestures, no light cast outward, only steadiness, a voice offered in the pause before the fall.

Now the house is still, yet something lingers. Those who pass feel it: a slowing, a softening, a brief suspension where the world seems to wait with them.

In this in-between space, the ridge does not judge. It holds. And for a moment, that is enough.