The sound of breathing fills the room, shuffling of sheets, the painful creaking of limbs held too still for too long. It’s unnerving, eyes drifting up to the ceiling as faint caresses of the thick snow falling on itself makes its way through the half done roof.
The glow of a phone offers no whispered sound of technology, or the click that phones once had, before the age of tech. Nothing is moving in the house. Except restless legs that replace the sound of breathing for the moment, as if the room is incapable of holding more than one sound at a time.
It’s too loud, the silence. It’s almost screaming, as if trying to drown out the deafness of its own soundlessness. 3am, and a shift of buzzed hair against the pillow creates an awkward break. The weight of the room feels heavy, and empty, yet still inexistent. But nothing still is something, if it is acknowledged.
The reality of it is a strange bedfellow, as the clock shifts silently. Eyes struggling to mark the passage of something only humans care for, since humanities’ other borders are failing horrifically.
Still, the sound of horror would be a welcome change.