Wells wrote a song tonight. It’s called “The Longest Night.”
He didn’t write it for the radio. He didn’t write it for a crowd.
He wrote it for the Vigil.
For the uncomfortable chair pulled too close to the bed. For counting breaths without meaning to. For the quiet courage of not leaving.
The song is a power ballad, but not the loud kind. It swells slowly. It holds its ground. It refuses to rush the morning.
It’s about standing watch while the world narrows to a rise and a fall. Chest up. Chest down. Again. Again.
It is like you waiting at The Ghost Station.
A platform that exists outside of time. You’re not getting on the train. You know that. You were never meant to.
But someone you love is.
And the only thing that matters, the only right thing, is to stand beside them while it arrives.
You don’t pull them back. You don’t pretend it isn’t coming. You just stay.
You keep your eyes open. You don’t abandon the platform. You say, I’m here. I’m still here.
That’s what The Longest Night is about.
Not fighting death. Not conquering grief. Just devotion.
The kind that says: “If you have to go, you won’t go alone. I’ll walk you as far as I’m allowed.”
Some nights are longer than they should be. Some nights ask more of us than we thought we had.
This one does.
So Wells keeps the watch. He holds the line. He waits for the light, not because it’s coming soon, but because staying matters.
"This one if for you Gene, you will be missed once you board the train, but know that your family and friends are here waiting with you even though we can come with you, we are here with you until the train arrives"
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