THE SHADOWS OF SILENCE

The night had fallen over the small town of Lydora, wrapping every street and rooftop in a suffocating stillness. No crickets sang, no dogs barked, not even the hum of electricity filled the air. The silence was so complete, it felt alive—watching, breathing, waiting.

Amara stood by her window, staring out at the empty road. The lights had gone out three days ago, right after the silence began. At first, everyone thought it was just a blackout, maybe a power failure. But when the birds stopped singing and the wind refused to blow, fear crept in like mist under a locked door.

She could still remember the last sound she’d heard—a faint scream, distant and quickly cut off. Since then, nothing. Not even her own voice.

When the silence began, it took their words. No one could speak anymore. Their mouths moved, their throats strained, but not a single sound escaped. People banged pots and slammed doors, but even metal on metal made no noise. It was as if the world had been wrapped in a blanket of nothingness.

Amara’s mother had written in trembling letters on a scrap of paper:
“Don’t go outside at night. They walk when it’s quiet.”

At first, Amara thought her mother meant looters or desperate survivors. But on the second night, she saw them.

From her window, shadows drifted across the street—long, thin, and flickering like smoke. They moved with purpose, but not like people. They seemed to glide, slipping through fences, under doors, through cracks in walls. Wherever they went, they left behind a deeper silence, one that pressed into your chest until you could barely breathe.

By the third night, half the town had vanished.

Now, Amara was alone in the house. Her mother’s note was still on the kitchen table, next to the candle that burned too low. The wax had spilled like frozen tears.

She sat at the table and wrote another note to herself:
“Don’t fall asleep. Don’t let them in.”

The clock on the wall ticked soundlessly, its hands moving but uselessly mute. The air felt heavy, as if the silence itself was a weight pressing down. She could feel something outside—waiting.

Suddenly, the candle flickered. Her breath caught. The shadows outside shifted.

She reached for the old flashlight her mother had hidden in the drawer. It barely worked, its beam faint and trembling. Still, it was something. Light, her mother had said, could keep them away.

But when she turned it toward the window, she froze.

A figure stood in the yard. Not one of the drifting shadows—no, this one had form. A person.

It was a man, tall, still as a statue. His eyes were pale and wide open, reflecting the faint light. He lifted a hand and pointed at the door.

Amara’s heart thundered in her chest, but she made no sound. She mouthed silently, Who are you?

He didn’t answer, but his expression twisted into something like warning—then fear. He turned and looked behind him. The darkness behind the trees was moving. The shadows were coming.

The man ran toward the door. Amara hesitated for a heartbeat, then unlocked it and pulled him inside. She slammed it shut, locking the bolt, pressing her back against the wood.

He stood there, panting soundlessly. His clothes were torn, his eyes wild. He took out a small notebook from his coat and scribbled:
“They follow sound. Even memory of sound.”

Amara frowned, confused. She wrote back:
“There’s no sound left.”

He shook his head violently, then pointed to his temple. “In here. Echoes. Memories.”

Her skin prickled. Could it be true? Did the shadows feed on what once was—on the echo of their world before silence?

The man reached for her candle, but she grabbed his wrist. “No!” she mouthed.

He pointed again toward the window. The glass was fogging over, as if breath pressed from the other side. Shapes moved in the mist—faces, half-formed and flickering.

Amara’s pulse pounded. The man gestured for her to follow. He led her through the back door and into the cellar. It was dark, but he lit a small lantern with trembling hands. The flame flickered, fragile but alive.

He showed her a circle of mirrors arranged on the floor. Each one faced inward.

“They fear reflection,” he wrote. “Can’t cross their own silence.”

They sat together, surrounded by light and glass, the only refuge left in a world swallowed by stillness. Hours passed. Amara’s eyes drooped. The silence made time meaningless.

Then she heard it—a sound.

It was faint, barely there. A whisper.

Her name.

“Amara…”

Her eyes snapped open. The man was asleep beside her. The voice came again, soft and familiar.

Her mother’s voice.

“Amara… come home.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She turned toward the stairs, trembling. The whisper grew clearer, warmer. Her mother’s voice, calling her the way she used to when dinner was ready.

Without thinking, Amara stood. The candle flame trembled.

She stepped out of the mirror circle.

When she reached the top of the stairs, the voice was right behind the door.

She opened it.

The world outside was black. The silence screamed.

And then, the shadows took her.

Moral: Silence hides many things—but sometimes, what hides within it remembers the sound of your name.