The Silent Feast

Some nights, the silence isn't empty. It listens. It breathes,

waiting patiently. A tiny itch, a whisper against your skin. You barely notice

it. But something is there. A feeling you can't quite shake

off. It thrives in the quiet, the unseen spaces. Always drawing closer.

A cold breath on your neck. The world narrows to that single point.

Then, silence breaks. And the silence returns, heavier than before.