THE MUSIC OF US

Silence. That is the first sound of my world. Every morning, the mist rolls in from the hills and settles over the De Rosa estate like a soft warning. The house stands tall and solemn, a monument to everything I have gained and everything I have lost. Marble floors. Long corridors. Curtains that never flutter because the windows are never open. I prefer it that way. People think silence is emptiness. For me, it is survival. I do not speak. I have not spoken in ten years. The only voice that lingers in these halls is the faint echo of my own thoughts and the steady clicking of my typewriter. That sound keeps me sane. It fills the void where my voice used to live. My world is ruled by quiet precision. I work, I type, I read, and I avoid the chaos of human noise. My assistant, Mr. John, is the only person allowed into my space. He is fifty-eight, loyal, patient, and the only one who understands how to read my silence. When he comes in every morning, I hand him a printed sheet of paper. My answers are always written. My instructions are clear. There is no need for spoken words. He nods, carries out my orders, and leaves. That is how it has been for years. The staff already know the rules. No music. No chatter. No disturbance of any kind. The estate must breathe in silence. But lately, silence feels heavier. It presses on my chest and makes me feel like I am running out of air. Perhaps it is because time is running out for me. I am thirty-four years old, the only heir to the De Rosa empire. According to my grandmother, Baroness Hanna De Rosa, I must be married before I turn thirty five, or I lose my right to the empire. That decree was written in my father’s will, and she guards it like scripture. She has been arranging meetings for me for years. Dinners. Garden teas. Weekend getaways. I have met women from wealthy families, graceful women with polished smiles. But none of them could survive the silence. They would sit across from me, waiting for words that never came. I would type short answers on my tablet, and the silence would grow unbearable until one of them excused herself to make a call or check her makeup. By dessert, the conversation was dead. They always left disappointed. I always returned relieved. Grandmother believes I am stubborn. The truth is simpler. I am afraid. I lost my parents in a plane crash ten years ago. I was there. I survived. My voice did not. The fire took it from me. The trauma sealed it. And since then, I have lived in a quiet cage of my own making. I know my grandmother worries. Every Thursday night, I have dinner with her. She insists it keeps us close. I type my replies on my small screen, and she reads them with the grace of a woman who has mastered patience. Sometimes, she smiles. Sometimes, she prays. “You must live again, Louis,” she told me last week as she poured tea into her fine porcelain cup. “You are too young to be a shadow.” I smiled faintly in reply. But what she does not understand is that I am already a shadow. _______________________________________________ That evening, after our dinner, I walked through the halls of my house and stared at the art that lined the walls. Paintings of the old world, carved frames, rare sculptures. My father collected beauty. My mother protected it. Now I keep it alive, though I no longer feel part of it. Art speaks for me when I cannot. It is my conversation with the world. ________________________________________ The next morning, Mr John brought a letter. I could tell from his face that it was different from the usual business correspondence. He placed it on my desk and waited. I opened it. The handwriting was tidy and confident. “Dear Sir, My name is M Josemaria. I am a research scholar in History and Arts. I wish to study the De Rosa estate for three weeks. My research focuses on families who have preserved ancestral art and heritage. I humbly request your permission to visit and conduct my research. Respectfully, M Josemaria.” A scholar. Interesting. I set the letter aside and thought about it for a long time. My grandmother had once said that the world does not stop because I am silent. Maybe she was right. Finally, I typed a short note and handed it to John. “Grant permission. Prepare the guest quarters. No exceptions to the house rules.” He nodded. As he turned to leave, I glanced out the window at the fog rolling across the fields. For a moment, I wondered what kind of person M Josemaria might be. A scholar in my house of silence. A man who studies the past, walking through a man who is trapped in it. Perhaps he will come and leave like everyone else. Or perhaps, without meaning to, he will bring back the one sound I have spent ten years trying to forget. The sound of life.