The Silence That Listens

Some places are loud, even in silence.

A cabin in the woods, for instance. You might think a place like that is peaceful—just you, the trees, the wind knocking lazy fingers against the roof. No honking cars, no city chatter, no flashing screens demanding your attention. Just quiet.

But silence isn't empty. It's waiting.

Charlie Morries needed a break. A little stillness. A little space. Just him, his thoughts, and nothing else. That's what he told himself, anyway.

But Charlie's mind has never been a quiet place. He has schizophrenia—voices that aren't his, shadows at the edges of his vision, memories that shift like sand. Medication helps, most of the time. But here, in the middle of nowhere, where the only sound is the one in his head, the lines start to blur.

A floorboard creaks when no one's moving.

Something shifts in the reflection of the darkened window—but only when he's not looking.

And at night, when the wind stops, when the world holds its breath, a voice whispers to him from the walls. A voice he hasn't heard in years.

Charlie came here alone.

So why does it feel like something is here with him?

And why, when he closes his eyes, does it feel like it's getting closer?