The Room Where Sound Dissolves

Silence settles like sediment through water, each molecule catching light that isn't there— a presence that arrives by leaving, a door that opens only when we stop knocking.

The world grows loud by forgetting to listen to its own slow breath: grass bending beneath nobody's step, insects threading through darkness with their threadbare song.

I've learned that quiet is not empty— it's crowded with ghosts of all we've stopped hearing, a held note stretching into prayer, the hum beneath every word we speak.

When language collapses into dust, what remains is stone and shadow: the patient unfurling of roots, the weight of things that know their names and keep them to themselves.