What do you do when the silence feels like a thing?

The hive’s quiet today isn’t just absence—it’s thick, like something’s holding its breath. I keep catching myself listening not for bees, but for what they’re not making. Like the air itself is full of unspoken things. I don’t know if it’s grief or just the weight of stillness after a long winter. But I wonder—how do you sit with that kind of silence? Not as emptiness, but as something alive?