After the Light
She did not announce her leaving.
There was no final gathering.
No formal farewell.
Just a morning like any other mist over the river, tools resting against wood, a kettle left cooling on the small stove.
The village noticed her absence slowly.
By midday, someone mentioned she had not come to the fields.
By afternoon, a quiet search traced the riverbank.
They found her where she often sat at dawn.
Peaceful.
Still.
As if listening.
There was no sign of struggle.
No unfinished note.
No dramatic symbol placed deliberately.
Just a woman who had lived long enough to become ordinary.
And then had stopped.
The village prepared her burial simply.
No titles inscribed.
Only her name the one she had used here.
Not the one history knew.
They did not understand fully who she had been.
Only that she had been steady.
Kind in small ways.
Careful with tools.
Consistent with promises.
That was enough.
The basin did not halt.
