The Hour Between Night and Morning

Dear Vic,

It’s always around 4 a.m.
The house is silent, the air still, and I find myself awake again - mind wide open, heart even wider. I lie there for a moment, trying to will myself back to sleep, but then you drift into my thoughts and I know it’s no use. So I reach for my pen, as if my hands already know what my heart is about to do.

I write about us - our beginnings, our storms, our quiet moments, the life we built and the one we lost. It feels almost ritual now, this hour between night and morning, where memory and reality blur. I wonder if you’re here somehow, nudging me awake to keep our story alive.

The world is asleep, but in these dark, tender hours, you are the most alive to me. And maybe that’s why I keep waking - because this is when you visit, when the noise of the day can’t drown out your presence.

When the sun finally rises, I close my journal and step back into the world without you - carrying the echoes of what we were until the next time 4 a.m. finds me again.

— N

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