There is a particular kind of silence
that comes after someone leaves. Not the
silence of empty rooms or quiet mornings,
not the silence of a library or a snow-covered
field — but the silence of a world that has
simply forgotten to account for one less
heartbeat. It settles into your bones the way
winter does: gradually at first, then all at
once, until it lives somewhere beneath the
skin and you stop being able to remember a
time before it was there.