short fiction · 2026-10-11

The Body's Archive

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

Silence is not empty; it is a substance that seeps into marrow, lodges in the hollows of ribs, and stains the inside of eyelids with the color of unsaid words. We carry it like a second skeleton, each quiet moment a fossil imprint in the soft tissue of now. When we remember, we do not recall sounds so much as the pressure of their absence, the way a thumb remembers the shape of a stone long after it has been dropped into deep water. The body keeps a ledger in bruises and blinks, tallying every hush that ever settled upon it, waiting for the day the silence speaks back in a language of aches and dawn.