I Remember You in Silence

The house is quiet now. Too quiet.

I step into the living room, and the faint scent of lavender still lingers in the air. Your scent. It clings to the armchair where you used to sit every morning, a half-read book resting on your lap, your eyes wandering to the window, lost in thoughts I was never brave enough to ask about.

There are no clocks ticking here anymore — I stopped them the day you left.

Not because I hated the sound, but because it was too cruel, the way they kept marching forward as if nothing had changed. As if the world hadn’t lost a piece of magic when your laughter disappeared.

I reach for the photo frame on the mantel. It’s dusty. I haven’t touched it in weeks, maybe months. Maybe I was afraid. Afraid that if I looked into your eyes again — even in stillness — I might shatter.

You always said silence wasn't empty. That silence held more truth than words. I never understood what you meant, not really — not until now.

We met on a rainy day. You, with a soaked umbrella and a shy smile, walking into the old bookstore where I worked part-time. You were looking for a copy of The Little Prince, and I remember how your eyes lit up when I said I had a hardcover edition hidden in the back, signed no less.

“I like stories that speak in whispers,” you had said.

I didn’t get it then.

But I handed you the book, and our hands brushed for just a second — just enough for the air to shift. Just enough for something wordless to pass between us.

From that day, silence grew between us like a vine. Not the awkward kind. No, the comforting, knowing kind. We'd sit on the rooftop, watching stars without a single word, feeling more connected in the stillness than in any conversation I’d ever had.

You told me once, “Not everything that matters is said out loud.” I nodded, even though I didn’t fully grasp it.

I do now.

You never told me how bad the illness had gotten. I think you were trying to protect me. Or maybe — maybe you were just trying to protect us.

You faded slowly, like the last notes of a song played at sunset. Your voice became softer, your steps slower, but your smile? It never left. That same quiet smile that had first walked into my life with a wet umbrella and a book in hand.

Even in your final weeks, when your body failed you, your silence never did. You spoke with your eyes, with the squeeze of your hand, with the way you looked at the sky as though it were reading you poetry.

The doctors said you were at peace. I said nothing. Not because I didn’t have words — but because they all seemed too small.

So I held your hand, and together we said everything in silence.

Now I sit on our rooftop, wrapped in the old blue sweater you always stole from my closet. The stars are faint tonight, veiled behind clouds, but I know you'd still find beauty in the sky. You always did.

I listen.

Not for sounds — but for the absence of them. In that absence, I hear you.

I hear your laughter echo in the walls.

I hear your footfalls in the hallway.

I hear the rustle of pages from your favorite book.

I hear your heartbeat — not in my ears, but in my chest, where it always lived.

People ask me why I never play music anymore. Why I don't talk about you often. Why I prefer to sit in the garden alone.

How do I tell them?

How do I explain that I still hear you in the silence? That your presence wraps around me in the hush of morning light, in the rustling leaves, in the stillness between breaths?

How do I tell them that the loudest things you've ever said to me weren’t with words?

Sometimes I dream of you.

You’re in the bookstore again, holding The Little Prince, smiling at me as if no time has passed.

“I missed you,” I whisper.

You don't say a thing. You just take my hand.

And in that gesture, I remember everything:

The love.

The quiet.

The comfort.

The pain.

The peace.

I wake up, always, just before you speak.

Maybe that’s your way of reminding me that we never needed words.

And maybe… just maybe, the most beautiful things are remembered not in noise, but in stillness.

So tonight, I light a candle for you. I don’t speak. I just sit.

And I remember you —

in silence.

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Here’s a cover image idea that perfectly captures the mood, emotion, and theme of “I Remember You in Silence”:

🎨 Cover Image Concept:

Scene Description:

A lone person sits on a rooftop at dusk, wrapped in a soft, oversized sweater. Their back is to the viewer. Around them: a quiet, calm sky—deep indigo with faint stars just beginning to appear behind wispy clouds. A half-burnt candle flickers gently beside them. In their lap rests an old, closed book (The Little Prince, subtly visible). Everything around is still — peaceful, reflective, full of unsaid emotion.

Color Palette:

Muted blues, lavender, and soft greys for the sky

Warm orange glow from the candle

Touches of soft yellow/white for stars

Shadowy tones for buildings and rooftop

Mood/Emotion to Capture:

Peaceful solitude

Gentle grief

Timeless memory

Love that lingers in silence

Optional Details (for added depth):

A faint silhouette of another person (ghostly) beside the main figure — transparent, blending into the stars.

Wind gently lifting a page from the book or a photograph tucked inside.

Title in elegant serif font, like Cormorant Garamond, and subtitle below it in soft cursive or handwriting-style font.

Let me know if you'd like me to generate this cover image visually, or if you're working with a designer and need mockup instructions!