To Those Who Will Remember Me Later
You did not listen. Not because you couldn’t—but because you weren’t ready to remember. And that is no sin. Even seeds must sleep in silence until the ground is right.
I spoke not for the moment, but for the moment yet to come. My words were not answers. They were keys— buried in the soft earth of your denial, waiting for a season you didn’t know you’d enter.
So when the ground cracks and something in you shifts— when silence becomes unbearable, and truth becomes undeniable— know this:
I was never trying to be right. I was trying to wake you before the fire. I was trying to show you the rain before the drought. To remind you of your breath before you forgot it belonged to you.
You may think of me now, with hindsight’s bitter warmth. You may wonder how I knew.
I didn’t.
I remembered.
And you are remembering now.
Take this not as judgment, but as a welcome.
The gates were never closed. The garden never left. You simply stepped away.
Now come. We still have time.