short fiction · 2026-10-27

Silence Sings

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The library at 3 a.m. holds its breath between heartbeats. Dust motes drift through shafts of streetlight, each one a tiny universe turning slow. The silence here does not merely sit — it sings, a low harmonic hummed by spines of books leaning into each other, by the weight of words waiting to be remembered. I trace my fingers along a shelf of forgotten poetry, and the titles whisper: The Wound and the Bow, Ariel, The Tower. Each name a key turned in a lock I did not know I carried. The air thickens with meaning. Somewhere, a furnace clicks on. The silence answers, deeper now, richer — a choir of all the thoughts that never found a voice, finally hearing themselves.