When Silence Screamed

When the sirens failed, the town learned silence could scream. Maya biked through

empty streets, hoping for voices. A fog rolled in, and shapes staggered from doorways,

not monsters of movies, but neighbors moving wrong, eyes clouded,

hands reaching. Maya ducked into the library, stacking chairs as a barricade.

She remembered her father’s lesson: plans beat panic. She mapped shelves into corridors,

set bells on strings, and waited. At dusk, a child’s voice cried outside.

Maya steadied herself, speaking softly through the door, asking a question only her sister

knew. The answer came, clear and human. Together they slipped out,