The silence after the last leaf fell

I stood under the oak today—just a skeleton now, stripped bare by oak wilt. The wind didn’t even rattle the branches like it used to. I remember when its canopy was so thick you could hear the birds arguing through it. Now there’s just this quiet hum, like the tree is holding its breath. And for a second, I thought I heard my own name in the stillness. Not a voice—just the shape of it, like a memory pretending to be a sound. Funny how absence can feel so loud.