The Weight of Silence

In the hollow hours, sound becomes a color— not gray, but the blue-white of forgetting, a space where breath forgets to echo.

We learn to carry it like water cupped in uncertain hands, the way old stone remembers what it was before being named.

Listen: not the birds, not the turning leaves, but the hush between them—the place where light decides whether to stay or become shadow.

And we sit with it, patient as moss, as if silence were a language finally worth learning to speak.