Wings of silence

Autumn had the color of ash.

The days dragged on in shades of grey, the air heavy and exhausted — as if even nature itself was reluctant to breathe. I sat on the couch with a cup of hot black coffee, the steam dissolving into the dim atmosphere of the room.

Silence ruled everywhere — only the ticking clock reminded me that time still moved. My thoughts scattered in all directions: society, the meaning of the world, man trapped in his own assumptions. Philosophy that led nowhere, yet gripped me like a tightening vise.

Outside, the sky suddenly darkened, as if someone had thrown a blanket over it. The wind roared through the branches, tearing them from the trees more easily than I could draw a breath. I felt a flicker of gratitude that I had a roof over my head — that I wasn’t out there in the storm.

And then, the window burst open. I flinched.

I jumped, hot coffee spilling over the rim and scalding my hand. Before I could comprehend what was happening, a black shadow rushed into the room — a crow. It seemed to have come from another world, and its collision was a message I couldn’t read. It screeched, a hoarse cry, then struck the white wall so hard that a ringing filled my ears.

It lay still on the floor — twisted, its wings spread at unnatural angles.

“Ah… why am I the one still standing here,” I whispered.

On the wall, blood had splattered — a crimson stain, like a sudden painting, a brutal reflection of the worst kind of nightmare.

I stood there, my hand still resting on the cup. I no longer thought about society or the world. There were no questions, no answers.

Only the dead bird — and its hollow eyes.

Silence settled in the room — so dense that even the clock ceased to tick.

The air was so heavy, I wished someone would pinch me.

But no one appeared.

No one ever will.