John Grikis

The Quiet between the walls

They only remember me when they’re alone. That’s how it starts. The silence creeps in, the kind that doesn’t hum with electricity or chatter with phones, but the kind that feels like a house holding its breath. That’s when I stir—quietly, respectfully—from the fold in the wallpaper behind the bookshelf or from under the bed, where the forgotten socks huddle like sleeping mice.