Morning came without permission.
Light slipped through the curtains like it had every other day of my life, soft and careless, as if nothing had changed. As if the world hadn't tilted off its axis sometime during the night.
I hadn't slept.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, staring at the opposite wall where a shadow kept shifting as cars passed outside. Every sound felt intrusive. Every movement felt wrong.
Silence had weight now.
It pressed against my chest, heavy and patient.
My phone lay on the table where I'd dropped it. The screen was dead, but I could still see it ringing in my head. Still hear the voice. Calm. Professional. Apologetic in the way people become when tragedy is no longer personal.
I didn't turn it on.
I already knew there would be messages. Missed calls. Questions. Sympathy wrapped in words that meant nothing.
I'm sorry for your loss.
We're praying for you.
God knows best.
I walked to the sink and splashed water on my face. The man who looked back at me didn't appear broken. His eyes were red, yes—but focused. Alert. Too alert.
That scared me more than tears would have.
Outside, the city had resumed its routine. Horns. Footsteps. Vendors shouting prices. Life, uninterrupted.
I stepped onto the street and blended into it, an invisible man carrying invisible damage. People brushed past me without a second glance. No one knew they were walking past the aftermath of a life quietly collapsing.
Good.
I didn't want witnesses.
At the corner café, the same woman stood behind the counter. She smiled when she saw me, already reaching for my usual order.
"The regular?" she asked.
"Yes," I said automatically.
She handed me the cup, steaming and familiar. I wrapped my hands around it, grateful for the heat, for something solid. She wished me a good day.
I nodded and walked away.
I took one sip before setting the cup down on the nearest table. The taste was wrong. Or maybe everything was.
As I walked, memories ambushed me without warning. Small things. Unimportant things. The kind you don't realize are sacred until they're all you have left.
A laugh.
A habit.
A voice calling my name from another room.
I stopped walking.
My chest tightened—not sharply, not dramatically—but steadily, like a vice being turned one notch at a time.
Breathe, I told myself.
I didn't cry. Not yet.
Instead, anger began to seep in. Quiet anger. The dangerous kind that doesn't shout or break things. The kind that asks questions.
Why today?
Why now?
Why them?
And the worst question of all:
Why the silence?
By noon, I found myself standing outside a building I hadn't planned to visit. The doors were open. Cool air spilled out, carrying the faint scent of polish and old wood.
A church.
I stood there longer than I meant to. Watching people go in. Watching people come out. Faces calm. Assured. Certain.
I stepped inside.
The space was empty except for a single man sitting near the front, his head bowed. Candles flickered gently, their flames steady and confident—as if they had never known doubt.
I sat in the back pew and stared at the altar.
This was where answers were supposed to live.
I closed my eyes and waited for the familiar feeling. That warmth. That sense of being heard. Of being held by something larger than pain.
Nothing came.
No comfort.
No peace.
No reassurance.
Just silence—thick and unmoving.
I stood up slowly.
As I turned to leave, my gaze caught on a plaque near the door. Names engraved neatly into stone. Dates. Memorials. Proof that loss was common enough to be catalogued.
I traced one name with my eyes, then another.
For the first time, the thought settled fully in my mind, solid and undeniable:
This wasn't a test.
This wasn't discipline.
This wasn't divine timing.
This was absence.
Outside, the sky was clear. Almost offensively so.
I looked up, squinting against the light.
"If you're there," I said quietly, not expecting an answer, "this would be a good time."
Heaven said nothing.
And somewhere between that moment and my next step forward, something inside me shifted again—less faith lost, more resolve gained.
If silence was the only response…
Then silence would no longer be mine alone.