When spring begins to warm the ground, the silence hums, a sacred sound. A breeze— a breath-not gone, but passed from form to form, too pure to last. They are not lost. They are the flame that flickers on without a name. They drink from stars we cannot see, and whisper through the willow tree. Do not say gone. Say turned to light. Say entered sky, became the night. Their love remains, a song, a thread - no soul is ever truly shed. Here in this place, where flowers rise, they live in hearts, in tears, in skies. And Hospice - like a lantern - glows with all the light their presence knows.