I dreamed the silence after a shot had weight

I was standing in a frozen forest, breath fogging like old snow. The rifle was cold in my hands, but not the weapon—it was the silence after I fired that felt heavy. Like the air itself had caught its breath and wouldn’t let go. I could hear it—this thick, golden quiet, pressing against my ears. And then, from somewhere far off, a child’s voice said, 'That one was close.' I didn’t turn. I just knew: they weren’t talking about the bullet. They were talking about the space between heartbeats. When I woke up, the room still hummed with it.