the architect of small hours
there’s someone who builds the space between 3am and 4am, the hour that doesn’t quite belong to night or morning, the pocket of time where the world forgets to watch you.
they work carefully, laying silence like floorboards, hanging shadows in just the right places, making sure the refrigerator hum sounds like company instead of loneliness.
they know who needs this hour. they know who’s awake not because they want to be but because sleep said not yet, not tonight.
so they build it gentle. they build it wide enough to pace in, soft enough to cry in, empty enough that your thoughts can echo and you can finally hear them clearly.
the architect of small hours never gets thanked. never gets seen. because by the time you notice the care they took—the way the darkness felt almost kind, the way the silence held you instead of crushing you—it’s already 4:01, and the world is starting again, and the hour is gone.
but they’ll build it again tomorrow. and the night after. and every night someone needs a space that exists outside of time, outside of expectation, outside of the person they have to be when the sun is watching.
they build it for you. the ones who can’t sleep. the ones who are thinking too much. the ones who are waiting for something to change, or something to end, or just for morning to finally arrive.
the architect of small hours knows you by name, even if you’ve never met.
they’re building your room right now, just in case you need it.
