It’s quiet here, but I don’t mind.
The air sits still, the way it should.
Nothing stirs unless I watch for it.
Even the dark feels settled, like it belongs.
I’ve always liked it better when things are still.
No wind, no voices carrying through.
Just the earth holding its breath with me.
It’s quiet here, but I don’t mind.
Sometimes there are sounds.
Not often.
They don’t last long when they come.
They never do.
A breath, perhaps,
taken too quickly,
as though it might be needed.
I remember that feeling.
How it used to matter
whether you held it or let it go.
It doesn’t, in the end.
The air keeps it either way.
It’s quiet here, but I don’t mind.
There are other things, too.
Low shapes,
uneven in the dark.
They weren’t always there.
I would have noticed.
They settle quickly, though.
Whatever they are.
There’s a kind of patience to it.
A willingness to stay
once the movement stops.
I don’t think they like the light much.
Not that it comes here often.
Still — they’re closer now than they were.
I can feel that, even when I don’t move.
Do I move?
It’s quiet here, but I don’t mind.
I tried once to stand.
I remember that.
Not the standing itself —
just the thought of it,
as though it had already happened
and left me behind.
The ground wouldn’t give me back.
Or perhaps I didn’t ask properly.
It’s quiet here.
I don’t mind.
There’s that sound again.
Softer than before.
Uncertain.
It comes and goes
as if it hasn’t learned the place yet.
It’s easier if you’re still.
It helps.
Everything settles, after a while.
It’s quiet here. It doesn’t take long.
Not as long as it feels like it might.
The sound slows first.
Then stops.
There’s a kind of peace in that.
A settling.
You don’t need to hold on to it.
It isn’t taken from you.
It just… isn’t needed.
They’re still now.
Like the others.
It’s easier that way.
...
It’s quiet here.