The Watchman

You feel things before they happen. A heaviness the day before the news breaks. A name you can't stop praying for — who calls a week later. You've learned to hold it quietly; not everyone wants a smoke alarm. But you've stopped pretending it isn't real.

In solitude you carry burdens that aren't yours, keeping watch while others sleep, praying down walls nobody knew were under siege. And when you finally do speak, the room goes quiet — because the people who know you have learned the hard way: you'd been seeing clearly all along.