---Echoes
The world didn't go silent all at once.
It began slowly, like water leaking through cracked glass. A missed "good morning." A birthday candle that never got lit. An apology that never came. Silence crept in, first in moments. Then hours. Then years.
Now, silence lives here.
In this house.
In Harry.
He wakes before the sun, not because he wants to, but because it's the only time the air doesn't feel heavy. He slips out of bed without a sound. His footsteps know the creaky spots on the floor like muscle memory — the way soldiers know landmines.
Downstairs, the kitchen is cold. Always is.
A note on the fridge reads:
"Gone early. There's bread."
No name. Not even "Mom."
She doesn't call herself that anymore.
Harry doesn't mind the bread. What he minds is how long it's been since he heard her voice. Or anyone's, really.
He takes two bites and tosses the rest. The bread's dry. Like everything else here.
At school, the noise returns. But not for him.
Laughter explodes in the hallways. Lockers slam. Boys throw punches for fun. Girls lean into each other, whispering secrets Harry will never hear. It should feel alive here. But to Harry, it's just noise — static over an empty channel.
No one speaks to him. Not really.
Mr. James says, "Harry, would you like to read your essay?"
Harry just blinks.
His silence is a wall now. Teachers don't climb it anymore. They walk around it like it's part of the furniture.
He writes instead. Quietly. Always. In the back of his notebook are pages no one has ever seen. Words he can't say out loud.
> I wasn't born quiet. I was made this way.
By people who left without leaving.
By doors that closed and stayed closed.
By love that forgot to speak.
He doesn't even look up when the bell rings.
---
After school, he walks home. Alone.
It starts to rain — light, then hard.
He doesn't run. The rain is the only thing that talks to him.
In his room, soaked to the skin, Harry sits by the window and opens his notebook again. This time, he doesn't write a poem. He writes one sentence, over and over:
> I am still here.
As if reminding the silence it hasn't won.
Not yet.