In the silence of the night, I hear the war whisper. Not loud like it was— but soft, like it misses me. My daughter breathes steady in the next room. She doesn't know the names I still carry. Doesn't know why I flinch when the dog barks too sharp. In the silence of the night, I sort through the pieces. I rebuild without instructions. I hold each broken part to the light and decide if it still belongs. The silence is not empty. It’s a negotiation. A battlefield of thoughts where I refuse to surrender what's left of me to what tried to take all of me. In the silence of the night, I find the edges of peace. I trace them, slowly, until morning.