The night descended with a weight that pressed upon every stone, every breath, every heartbeat. She had grown accustomed to the darkness by now, to the ritual of listening for his voice. Each evening, when the hush deepened, she would place her ear against the cold wall and wait. It was their sanctuary—this fragile, stolen hour where words carried through stone and shadow.
But on this night, there was no whisper.
At first, she told herself to be patient. Perhaps he was late in finding his strength. Perhaps he lingered in exhaustion, gathering his breath before sending his voice into the silence. She pressed her palm harder against the wall, her lips brushing the damp surface.
"I am here," she whispered. "I am waiting."
The silence stretched. A soundless eternity.
Her heart began to pound, filling the quiet with the echo of her fear. She tried again, her voice more urgent. "Are you there?"
No reply.
She closed her eyes, fighting against the sudden rush of dread. Perhaps he slept. Yes, perhaps sleep had claimed him, a mercy in the midst of suffering. She clung to that thought, but unease gnawed at her. Every night until now, no matter how weary he had been, he had found the strength to whisper. It was their vow: as long as breath remained, they would speak.
The silence was not empty. It was full—full of her terror, her doubts, her unspoken cries. She sank to her knees, pressing both hands to the wall as though she could tear it down with sheer longing. "Do not leave me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Not now. Not ever."
Still, there was nothing.
She thought of the meadow he had described to her only nights ago, the river that shone like silver, the endless sky. His words had painted the dream so vividly that she had almost touched it. Could such a dream be extinguished so quickly? Could it vanish into nothing more than silence?
Tears blurred her vision. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, desperate to keep from crying aloud. For to cry too loudly would mean admitting defeat, and she had not endured all this darkness to surrender now.
She steadied herself, breathing slowly. "If you cannot speak tonight," she whispered softly, "then I will speak for both of us."
So she began to talk. At first, her words tumbled clumsily, heavy with grief. She told him of her memories—her niece's laughter on the day of the birthday when they had first met, the sunlight caught in his eyes, the way her heart had stumbled into knowing. She spoke of the silence that followed, of the weight of days, of the way hope still burned, however faintly, like a candle in a storm.
Then her words softened. She began to tell him stories, the kind she had once told children—fables of travellers finding their way home, of lovers separated by oceans who one day met again. She recited fragments of poems half-remembered, and though the verses faltered, her voice did not. For in speaking, she refused the silence its victory.
Hours passed in this way. She spoke until her throat ached and her lips felt raw. She spoke as though her words could reach him, as though her voice could weave a thread strong enough to pull him back from wherever the silence had taken him.
At last, when her strength gave out, she leaned once more against the wall. Her eyes closed, her breath shallow. The silence still held, vast and unbroken. And yet… something had shifted. It no longer felt like a void. Instead, it felt like a pause, a breath held, a promise waiting to be spoken.
She pressed her lips to the stone, her final whisper soft but resolute. "I will not stop waiting. Even if silence is all you can give, I will hear you in it. And when you return, I will be here."
As she lay back upon the floor, exhaustion claiming her, she realised the silence itself had become a form of speech. It was not abandonment. It was endurance, another way of saying: I am still here. I have not gone.
And with that thought, fragile but fierce, she drifted into sleep, carrying hope like an ember against the dark.