The Heavy Silence

The same creaking floorboards. The same old smell of bread in the air. The sun hadn't come up yet, but its low-angled light was filtering through the window, bathing the room in pale yellow and gray.

I traced my fingers over the coarse burrs of the blanket that never quite reached me. The eaves, which flaked and wavered, framed a room that was hardly a room. A storage closet disguised as a sleeping space.

The house had always been damp, heavy with dust and silence. My father snored in the next room — low, guttural, the sound of a man drowning in his failures. He was always drinking. He had been drinking ever since I could remember.

My mother, by contrast, was just gone. Not in body, but in presence. She existed like ghosts do — cold, distant, hovering just enough to remind me she was there but never enough to touch.

I didn't want to get up. I didn't want to deal with this house, with my parents, or with the weight that pressed in on my chest every morning. The day, however, did not wait for me. It never did.

I stood, getting dressed, and the floor was cold on my bare feet. The same shabby shirt, the same baggy pants. No need to make us look good." Not here.

The kitchen looks exactly how I left it last night — crumbs scattered over the table, my half-drunk cups of cold tea, and the faint mist of my mother's perfume lingered in the stagnant atmosphere. She was gone. She was always gone.

I grabbed a broom, instinctually, sweeping more by habit than need. Her voice floated in from another room, distant.

"Alarion, clean that mess."

The house didn't mean anything to her. She cared about control.

I put down the broom and looked up at the window. The world outside continued, uncaring of the corruption behind this gate.

It would be the same today. The same silence. The same waiting.

Soon my father would reel in from the kitchen, a bottle in hand, his eyes rimmed with regret he would never confess to. He'd smirk, tell me I wasn't good enough. Not for him. Not for anything.

I faced the stove, heating last night's stew. The air was filled with the smell of grease and salt, but it did nothing to whet my appetite.

A chair was pulled on the floor. My father was awake.

His bleary sleepy eyes focused on me as he flopped into that chair. He grinned — if you could call it that. It was the performance of a man feigning that he hadn't lost everything.

"Breakfast," he slurred. "I'd get it myself, but…" Here his voice faded into a half-hearted chuckle.

I said nothing, placing the bowl in front of him. He wolfed it down in silence as if he hadn't had a meal in days. A lie. He always ate. Just never gave a damn about anybody else.

When he was done, he shoved the bowl away, his eyes narrowing.

"You're wasting your time here. His voice gave out low, sort of to himself. "This place… this life — it'll tear you apart. No one ever gets out."

I looked at him, but there was nothing to say.

Without a word, I turned and walked away.

I will get out.

It settled in my mind as I stepped out, the blisteringly cold air a welcome contrast to the hot, stuffy house. My mother's voice caught me before I could get away.

"Clear the garden."

Not a request. An order.

The "garden" was just a plot of overgrown weeds in dying soil. I fetched rusted tools from the shed and began to work, hands clawing in the dirt, motions methodical, controlled. Outside this place, the world felt distant, out of reach.

But I would reach it.

I would.

A voice broke through my thoughts.

And you realize you're wasting your time, right?'"

I froze.

The woman at the gate was not of this place. She exuded a sort of stillness that seemed purposeful as if she were someone who observed more than she revealed.

"You're not from here," I said.

She smiled, though her eyes never smiled back. "No. Just visiting."

Her eyes rested on me, piercing and aware. "You don't belong here, Alarion."

My breath caught.

"How do you know my name?"

She didn't answer right away. She stepped forward, her voice softer but heavy.

"You are not just this life in front of you. But it all starts with the recognition that there's something inside of you — something ready to wake up."

The words lingered. I wanted to ask what she meant, but she turned before I could.

She turned one last time at the gate.

"There's always a way out. You just have to find it."

Then she was gone.

I was paralyzed, rake still in my hands, her words landing like deep breaths in my chest.

For the first time in ages, something changed.

I had no idea what was going to happen next.

But I was about to find out.The same creaking floorboards. The same old smell of bread in the air. The sun hadn't come up yet, but its low-angled light was filtering through the window, bathing the room in pale yellow and gray.

I traced my fingers over the coarse burrs of the blanket that never quite reached me. The eaves, which flaked and wavered, framed a room that was hardly a room. A storage closet disguised as a sleeping space.

The house had always been damp, heavy with dust and silence. My father snored in the next room — low, guttural, the sound of a man drowning in his failures. He was always drinking. He had been drinking ever since I could remember.

My mother, by contrast, was just gone. Not in body, but in presence. She existed like ghosts do — cold, distant, hovering just enough to remind me she was there but never enough to touch.

I didn't want to get up. I didn't want to deal with this house, with my parents, or with the weight that pressed in on my chest every morning. The day, however, did not wait for me. It never did.

I stood, getting dressed, and the floor was cold on my bare feet. The same shabby shirt, the same baggy pants. No need to make us look good." Not here.

The kitchen looks exactly how I left it last night — crumbs scattered over the table, my half-drunk cups of cold tea, and the faint mist of my mother's perfume lingered in the stagnant atmosphere. She was gone. She was always gone.

I grabbed a broom, instinctually, sweeping more by habit than need. Her voice floated in from another room, distant.

"Alarion, clean that mess."

The house didn't mean anything to her. She cared about control.

I put down the broom and looked up at the window. The world outside continued, uncaring of the corruption behind this gate.

It would be the same today. The same silence. The same waiting.

Soon my father would reel in from the kitchen, a bottle in hand, his eyes rimmed with regret he would never confess to. He'd smirk, tell me I wasn't good enough. Not for him. Not for anything.

I faced the stove, heating last night's stew. The air was filled with the smell of grease and salt, but it did nothing to whet my appetite.

A chair was pulled on the floor. My father was awake.

His bleary sleepy eyes focused on me as he flopped into that chair. He grinned — if you could call it that. It was the performance of a man feigning that he hadn't lost everything.

"Breakfast," he slurred. "I'd get it myself, but…" Here his voice faded into a half-hearted chuckle.

I said nothing, placing the bowl in front of him. He wolfed it down in silence as if he hadn't had a meal in days. A lie. He always ate. Just never gave a damn about anybody else.

When he was done, he shoved the bowl away, his eyes narrowing.

"You're wasting your time here. His voice gave out low, sort of to himself. "This place… this life — it'll tear you apart. No one ever gets out."

I looked at him, but there was nothing to say.

Without a word, I turned and walked away.

I will get out.

It settled in my mind as I stepped out, the blisteringly cold air a welcome contrast to the hot, stuffy house. My mother's voice caught me before I could get away.

"Clear the garden."

Not a request. An order.

The "garden" was just a plot of overgrown weeds in dying soil. I fetched rusted tools from the shed and began to work, hands clawing in the dirt, motions methodical, controlled. Outside this place, the world felt distant, out of reach.

But I would reach it.

I would.

A voice broke through my thoughts.

And you realize you're wasting your time, right?'"

I froze.

The woman at the gate was not of this place. She exuded a sort of stillness that seemed purposeful as if she were someone who observed more than she revealed.

"You're not from here," I said.

She smiled, though her eyes never smiled back. "No. Just visiting."

Her eyes rested on me, piercing and aware. "You don't belong here, Alarion."

My breath caught.

"How do you know my name?"

She didn't answer right away. She stepped forward, her voice softer but heavy.

"You are not just this life in front of you. But it all starts with the recognition that there's something inside of you — something ready to wake up."

The words lingered. I wanted to ask what she meant, but she turned before I could.

She turned one last time at the gate.

"There's always a way out. You just have to find it."

Then she was gone.

I was paralyzed, rake still in my hands, her words landing like deep breaths in my chest.

For the first time in ages, something changed.

I had no idea what was going to happen next.

But I was about to find out.