Silence

All he had in his life was silence.

The hollow bell in the temple no longer sang; its bronze throat was cracked from years of neglect. Dust lay thick upon the altar, motes dancing lazily in the dying candlelight, like ghosts of prayers long forgotten. The incense he lit fought the air, sweet and sharp, but it could not mask the stench of absence.

He sat cross-legged on cold stone, spine straight, hands folded. His breath came in shallow rhythms, each exhale a reminder of the years he had spent waiting. He had prayed for rain when the crops failed, for healing when the fever took her, for mercy when war came to the village. Silence was all that answered.

A clay cup rested before him. The bitter remnants of tea curled in the corners, bitter like regret. He remembered her hands cupping the same cup, fingers warm and soft, the faint hum of her voice carrying through the quiet evenings. Now, her laughter existed only in the hollows of his mind, stolen by the cruel march of time.

He picked up a worn brush and dipped it in black ink, letting it slide across the wall. A verse, simple but heavy:

When bells no longer sing

the sky weeps in our stead

God hides in silence.

The ink bled into the cracks of the stone, dark and final. The wind whispered through the open window, tugging at his robes and hair. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness settle into every crevice of his being.

All he had in his life was silence. And now, silence consumed him fully. A breath left him, and the last candle flickered. The temple was empty, save for a shadow pressing against the stone floor, a body still, joined finally to the quiet it had worshiped for decades.

All he had in his life was silence—and silence had claimed him completely.