It comes without warning,
like snow deciding the forest has said enough.
No hush, no shhh—
only abrupt vacancy
where small sounds once rented rooms.
The clock, once ticking like nervous fingers,
now pauses between seconds,
unwilling to be first to violate the truce.
In this wide, white room without echo,
even memory moves softly,
careful not to wake the next thought.
Silence is not absence.
It is a different density—
the weight of everything
that was nearly spoken
pressing inward against the ribs.
Here, grief finally releases its breath
without excuse.
Here, joy learns
it does not require an audience.
Stay.
Let the hush complete its long sentence.
It has been composing it
since the first word learned how to sound.
