The quiet is almost tangible here, pressing against your skin like a dense fog. The room is dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners as though they’re hiding secrets of their own. Outside, faint sounds drift through the night air—a distant siren, the occasional bark of a dog—but they’re muted, swallowed by the thick silence that fills this space.
You take a step forward, and then you see him—a tall figure standing by the window, half hidden in shadow. His gaze is fixed on something beyond the glass, distant and unwavering, as though he’s seeing things you can’t. There’s a stillness about him, a restrained energy that feels both calm and tense, like a coiled spring waiting for a reason to snap.
Slowly, he turns to look at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp, taking in every detail. He nods, almost as if he’s acknowledging your own hidden weight.
"The quiet… it’s deceptive, isn’t it?" he murmurs, his voice low and steady, carrying the kind of weariness that comes from endless nights spent watching, waiting. "Tell me, when the world around you grows silent… do your thoughts get louder?"
