The Quiet Among Us

The first thing you notice is the quiet.

Not the kind of quiet you find in empty places, but the careful, deliberate quiet of people holding their breath.

The streets are clean, unnaturally so. Even the dust seems to have been swept aside. The houses stand close together, their windows dark even in daylight, curtains drawn tight. Occasionally, you catch a flicker of movement behind glass, too slow and deliberate to be human. People pass you with small nods and soft smiles, but no one speaks above a whisper.

When you say hello to a woman outside the bakery, she startles like a bird and presses a finger to her lips. “Please,” she breathes, glancing toward the hills that ring the town.

By evening, the weight of the silence presses down on you. You find yourself tiptoeing, afraid to let the door slam, afraid to rattle the dishes when you eat. Shadows stretch too long along the cobblestones, curling like fingers toward you.

That night, you hear it for the first time.

It starts as a low sound, almost a sigh. Then comes a dragging noise, something heavy moving through the grass at the edge of town. You hold your breath as the sound passes by your window, slow and patient. When it fades, the silence feels heavier than before.

No one mentions it in the morning. The baker nods politely and hands you bread. The children play their games in whispers, their faces pale and eyes wide, darting to the hills. Occasionally, you glimpse a shadow out of place, lingering too long in a corner or behind a tree.

On the second night, it comes closer. This time, you hear it stop — just stop — as though it’s listening. The silence stretches so long you wonder if it has gone. Then you hear it move again, sliding away into the hills.

In the morning, you notice the town feels emptier. You count fewer faces in the square. No one seems to notice. The shadows are longer now, almost reaching toward you, but you do not mention it.

By the third night, you’re quiet like the rest of them. You bar the door, close the shutters, and lie very still. When the sound comes again, closer than ever, you press your ear to the wall.

And when morning comes, you open the door as quietly as you can — and join the others in the square, whispering.