Serenity
I never realized how quiet the house had been until it was too late.
The air was thick with it, the silence that clung to every corner, every room, like dust that had built up over the years. I tried to ignore it, tried to lose myself in the rhythm of the day—making breakfast, cleaning up, running errands—but it was always there, just beneath the surface. The silence of a home that had become too empty, too quiet.
When I was younger, the noise used to fill the space. Laughter, shouting, the sound of a thousand small moments colliding into one. My mother used to hum as she cleaned the house, her voice soft and sweet, and my brother would sing along with her, off-key but with such enthusiasm that you couldn’t help but smile.
But now, it was just me. And the emptiness that seemed
