The Quiet Theft

They came with open hands
and voices full of need,
each one certain their hunger
was the loudest thing in the room.

I did what I always do.
I listened.
I bent.
I stitched pieces of myself
into places where the fabric of their lives had torn.

A word here.
A promise there.
A steady shoulder for storms
that were never mine to weather.

And still they asked.

Another answer.
Another kindness.
Another moment of my time
as if time were a well
that could never run dry.

I told myself
this was what goodness looked like.
To be the bridge.
To be the lantern.
To be the quiet strength
that kept everything from falling.

But bridges wear thin under endless feet.
Lanterns burn oil meant for their own nights.

Somewhere between the first request
and the thousandth expectation
my own voice grew small.

I misplaced my silence,
lost it beneath the noise
of a hundred urgent calls.

And one evening,
when the clamour finally faded
and the world at last fell still,

I searched for myself
in the quiet.

What I found
was an echo.

Not broken.
Not gone.

Just waiting,
patient as winter soil,
for the day I remember

that a soul
cannot live forever
as everyone else’s answer.