The first light of morning had never felt so heavy.
Eliah woke before the sun, a habit formed back when sound still existed. Even without an alarm, his body kept time. He sat up slowly, unsure at first if he was awake or trapped in another dream.
The apartment around him was dim and still, yet something about it felt wrong — not the lack of noise, but the absence of the subtle vibrations he'd once taken for granted. There was no gentle hum from the refrigerator. No distant cars crawling along the street. No muted rush of wind through the cracked window.
It was not simply quiet. It was hollow.
He swung his legs to the floor, feeling the coolness of the wood beneath his bare feet. In that moment, he caught himself holding his breath — as if breathing too loudly would shatter something fragile in the air.
Across the small living room, a photo frame leaned on the shelf. It was of his mother, laughing with her head thrown back, a frozen burst of joy he could no longer hear in memory. Even in dreams, her voice was gone now.
He tried not to linger on it.
Instead, he shuffled to the window and parted the curtains. The street below lay in a strange kind of paralysis. A man in a gray coat walked briskly toward the corner, checking his watch every few steps. A woman leaned against a lamppost, rubbing her temples. None of them spoke. Their lips were still.
It was as if words had been abandoned overnight.
When the world first learned to communicate with him — through signs, through patience, through written words — Eliah had begun to believe silence could be beautiful. Now, the silence felt stolen. It didn't belong to him anymore.
His phone vibrated on the table. He grabbed it and saw a message from Ava.
Are you awake?
It's worse today.
He read the words twice before setting the phone down. Ava wasn't the kind to exaggerate. If she said worse, she meant it.
He pulled on his jacket and stepped outside.
The air was brittle with cold. As he walked toward the café where they sometimes met, he noticed people gathering in clusters — not talking, but staring at one another, hands gesturing awkwardly, as if unsure how to begin.
A small boy signed something in hurried, clumsy motions while tugging at his father's sleeve. The boy's face tightened in frustration as the father frowned, not understanding. Eliah felt a familiar ache in his chest.
As he glanced at the corner, he noticed Ava standing by the café's window, her breath creating tiny clouds in the early morning air. With her hair pulled back and her eyes searching the street, she was wearing her typical long coat.
She spotted him and walked over.
You came, she signed, her movements sharp with urgency.
You said it's worse.
She glanced around before replying. It's not just sound anymore. People are losing… something else. Like they can't remember how to… She hesitated, searching for the right sign. Connect.
Eliah frowned. What do you mean?
She pointed toward a nearby bench. A middle-aged couple sat side by side, their bodies angled away from each other. Their eyes didn't meet. Even their stillness felt detached, as though they'd been dropped into place without any thread tying them together.
They're strangers, Ava signed. But yesterday, I saw them here, laughing. Touching hands. Now? Nothing.
Eliah's stomach knotted. He had seen versions of this before — people drifting apart, losing connection for reasons they couldn't name — but never this fast.
They walked in silence, weaving through the shifting crowds. The further they went, the stranger things became. A man stood in the middle of the road, staring straight ahead, unmoving. Two children passed a ball between them without smiling, without looking at each other.
It's spreading, Ava signed.
Eliah nodded, though a thought burned quietly in his mind: What if this isn't something that can be stopped?
By midday, they reached the park. The wind moved through the skeletal trees, their bare branches swaying, yet even that movement felt soundless in a way Eliah couldn't quite explain. The silence wasn't passive anymore — it was oppressive, as though something in the air was pressing down on everyone at once.
They sat on the stone edge of the fountain, which had been drained for winter. Ava's hands twisted in her lap.
Do you feel it? she signed.
He thought for a moment before replying. Yes. But it's more than silence. It's… like the world has been turned inside out.
Her eyes softened, but there was fear behind them. I dreamt about it last night. About the moment it happened.
He tilted his head, waiting.
There was a sound — not like any I've heard before. Low, heavy, and it made everything… blur. Then I woke up, and it was gone. All of it.
Eliah's pulse quickened. I dreamt something too.
What?
He hesitated. The dream had been fractured, hard to hold onto. He remembered standing in an endless field, the grass frozen mid-sway, and a dark shape in the distance that hummed without moving. He hadn't been able to tell if it was alive.
Before he could reply, a sudden movement caught his eye. A man stumbled into the park from the far path, clutching his head. His eyes were wide and unfocused. Ava stood immediately, stepping toward him.
The man's mouth moved — slowly, as if testing the shape of each word — but no sound came. He reached for Ava's arm, then stopped halfway, his hand trembling.
Eliah rose to his feet, watching the man sway before collapsing to his knees. The only sound was the faint rustle of his coat against the stone.
We need to get him help, Ava signed quickly.
Eliah nodded, though his gaze stayed fixed on the man's face. There was something in his eyes — not fear, not pain, but an emptiness that felt colder than anything the winter air could bring.
By evening, Eliah returned to his apartment alone. The streets were nearly deserted now. He locked the door, sat at the table, and tried to write down what had happened, but his hand refused to settle. The pen shook.
Finally, he set it aside and lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
The last thought before sleep took him was simple but sharp:
If silence can take sound, what else can it take?