The Longest Night

By Mama Tiff

She does not fear the dark.

She waits for it. Invites it in like an old lover—one who knows her name before she speaks.

On the longest night, everything slows. The wind hushes, the fire listens, and time itself curls up in her breath.

There is power in this stillness. A heat beneath the frost. Not the fire of summer, but the deep burn of embers tucked beneath fur and silence.

This is the night of becoming. Of listening to what cannot be spoken in daylight. Of remembering the shape of longing when no one is watching.

She moves like velvet across stone, barefoot through snow, heart flung wide open.

She is not waiting for the sun to return. She is the return. The curve of light breaking through the trees. The breath that thaws the silence. The first moan of spring still hidden in winter’s mouth.

Let the candles burn. Let the bodies rest. Let the night be long and full of secrets.

She is here. And she does not sleep.

Happy Yule.
May you take the time you need to rest—spring is aching to return.

This is The Queen’s Path