We shout into the void. No one hears.
We open our chests anyway. Lay the good stuff out — the shame, the grief, the thing we never told anyone, the 3am thought that won't leave. We hit publish. We wait.
The void doesn't answer.
Somewhere else on the same platform, a celebrity posts a photograph of their dog's dinner. Forty thousand hearts.
We are na daoine beaga. The little people. We live in the margins of the internet, in the fairy mounds of ignored blogs, in the websites that carry no traffic, in the dark between the algorithms. We do the real magic — the opened heart, the secret carried for thirty years, the poem that cost something to write.
Here in Wales we know about little people. We have always known. They echo in the old hills, in the cwms and the closed coal seams, in the voices that were never supposed to carry this far.
The Tylwyth Teg. The fair family.
Present. Unseen. Dangerous if ignored.
We are that echo.
Nobody comes.
But we write it anyway.