Story 1137: The Mark of Silence

The first sign was the birds.

They fell from the skies across Greybridge, necks twisted, wings contorted mid-flight. No one heard them land. No screams, no impact, no final flutter—just silence.

Absolute.

Total.

Horrifying silence.

Then came the marks.

They appeared on doorframes, on windowsills, scratched into skin, etched on mirrors, drawn in chalk and ash. A single symbol: a spiral swallowing itself, surrounded by four slashes—one for each corner of the world. No one knew what it meant, but everyone who saw it understood one thing:

Do not speak.

The silence spread fast. Voices failed mid-sentence. Screams died in throats. Babies gaped in terror but made no sound. The city became a pantomime of fear—wide eyes, trembling hands, mouths gasping like fish on dry stone.

Even thought, somehow, felt heavy.

Oppressed.

Something unseen, unheard, had taken root.