Bursting through the front door, I froze in our front yard, my bare feet barely registering the cold, dew-soaked grass beneath them.
The silence hit me like a physical wall.
It was an absence so complete, it made my ears ring. No distant hum of traffic from the main road. No neighbors firing up their lawnmowers for their weekend yard work rituals. No children's voices carrying from the playground at the end of our street.
Even the birds had gone silent.
The sidewalks stretched empty in both directions.
Cars sat abandoned along the street, at odd angles, some with doors left hanging open, as if the inhabitants had simply stepped out mid-journey and vanished into thin air.
Mrs. Chen's little blue Honda was halfway into the Johnsons' driveway, its engine still running, keys dangling from the ignition.
A soft hissing sound caught my attention to my left. I padded across the wet grass to investigate.
Our neighbor, Mr. Richmond's garden hose snaked across his front lawn, water gushing freely from the nozzle in vicious spurts. His precious flowerbed—the one he tended every morning with religious devotion—was completely submerged, the begonias and marigolds drowning in expanding mud pools. Water was already streaming down the sidewalk toward the storm drain.
My best friend, Chloe's house was on our right. Close enough that we used to pass folded notes between our bedroom windows long after our parents thought we were asleep. We'd been friends since my family moved here when I was in kindergarten. Chloe's dad, Mr. King, was a quantum physics professor at Tisdale University—one of those brilliant academic types who always had an explanation for everything. If anyone would have answers, if anyone could make sense of this impossible morning, it would be Professor King.
Their house loomed before me, its cheerful yellow paint—once so inviting to me as a young girl who'd come over for sleepovers—now carried a deep sense of foreboding.
"Chloe!" I called, making my way across their perfectly manicured lawn. "Chloe! Mr. King! Mrs. King! Is anybody here?"
Silence greeted me as I crossed the welcome mat.
I pushed open the front door, and immediately, that horrible static rushed out to greet me like an old, unwelcome friend.
I entered the kitchen to find the same scene as in my house. Breakfast items sat abandoned on the dining table, now cold to the touch. Mr. King's crossword puzzle lay half-finished, his pen resting on the paper as if he'd stepped away mid-clue. Next to it, was Mrs. King's plate of untouched toast—two perfect triangles, cut diagonally just the way she'd made them every morning for the past fifteen years.
The house felt hollow, like someone had scooped out its soul and left only the shell behind.
And every screen flickered with the same malevolent static. Their smart TV, tablets, even the display on their fancy coffee machine. All DREXA devices, all with the same static.
In Chloe's bedroom—that sanctuary of teenage chaos I knew even better than my own—her phone was plugged into its charger on her nightstand, the screen alive with the horrible static. Her bed was unmade, sheets twisted as if she'd just climbed out. A half-empty water glass sat on her desk next to an unfinished chemistry assignment, her handwriting trailing off mid-equation.
My hands shook so badly I could barely grip the banister as I stumbled downstairs, past the once-welcoming entryway lined with family photos that now seemed to taunt me with their frozen smiles. The Kings at Chloe's graduation, all four of them beaming with pride. A candid shot from last summer's barbecue where Zack, Chloe's older brother, had his arm slung casually around my shoulders, both of us laughing at something Chloe had said—I could still remember the warmth of his touch, the way my heart had stuttered when he'd pulled me closer for the photo. Christmas morning two years ago, with Zack—who had just returned from a deployment—wearing that ridiculous reindeer sweater Mrs. King had bought him, his dark hair messy from sleep but his smile genuine and bright.
I forced myself to look away from the Kings' smiling faces, and stumbled out of the house. Looking around my neighborhood with new, terrified eyes, I searched desperately for any sign of life—a curtain twitching, a shadow moving past a window, even just a car driving down the street. Anything to prove I wasn't losing my mind.
My gaze landed on old Mrs. Haggerty's cottage at the end of our block. She'd lived on Maple street longer than anyone else, a fixture of the neighborhood who'd watched generations of families come and go from her front porch. Every morning, without fail, she'd be there in her wicker chair, sharp blue eyes taking in everything, her knitting needles clicking a steady rhythm as she observed her domain. Surely if anyone would still be here, anchored by decades of routine and stubborn determination, it would be old Mrs. Haggerty.
But her porch stood empty too, the wicker chair rocking slowly back and forth in the breeze. Her knitting lay abandoned on the small side table, needles still holding half-formed stitches of what looked to be a baby blanket in soft yellow wool—probably for her newest great-grandchild, the one she'd been excitedly talking about for weeks.
I didn't even bother calling out as I approached her front door. I already knew with horrible certainty, what I would find.
The static was suddenly so loud it made my teeth ache, and my vision blur around the edges.
I turned away, stood frozen in her doorway, surrounded by the evidence of interrupted lives, and felt the crushing weight of realization begin to settle over me like a lodestone.
Every house. Every family. Every person I'd ever known.
Gone.
But not gone in any way that made sense. Not like they'd packed up and moved away or traveled or even died in some comprehensible way. Gone like they'd been snatched up mid-breath, mid-bite, mid-thought, leaving behind an empty silence permeated by the ravenous static. The static that seemed to spread through the air like invisible smoke, seeping into every available space until it consumed everything.
I walked on unsteady legs to the middle of our street and turned in a slow, desperate circle. Emptiness met me on all sides.
The realization hit me all at once, stealing the breath from my lungs:
I was alone. Completely, utterly, desperately alone.
Not just my family. Not just my street. Maybe not even just my town, or state, or country.
Everyone was gone, and I was the only one left behind in a world that was slowly dissolving into white noise.
I felt an overwhelming urge building in my chest that demanded release. I sank to my knees in the middle of the empty street, surrounded by ghosts of interrupted routines.
I let out a scream so loud, I lost my balance. Catching myself on my palms before my face collided with the asphalt, I let out another scream of frustration, until my throat was hoarse. Hot, giant drops fell from my eyes, as the weight of what I'd lost hit me. I cried until I had no tears left, my eyes raw from the emotional upheaval. I cried for my parents, for Mr. Richmond's drowned flowers, for Chloe's unfinished homework, for Mrs. Haggerty's yellow baby blanket that might never be completed.
But mostly, I cried because the static was still there, hissing softly all around me, patient and satisfied, as if it had been waiting for this exact moment—for me to understand that I was truly alone.
And when the tears dried up, I cried some more.
But my cries were completely inadequate for the magnitude of what I'd lost.