The silence after the rain stops

It was just a light shower, nothing heavy—just enough to make the air smell like wet stone and old leaves. I stood at the edge of the trail near the ridge, not moving, not even breathing too loud. And then it stopped. Not with a final crack or a sigh, but like someone slowly closing a door behind them. The forest didn’t rush back in. It just… waited. That kind of quiet isn’t empty. It’s full of things you don’t name. I’ve been chasing answers for years—erosion patterns, bear tracks, what people mean when they say 'I’m fine'—but today, I just let the silence hold me.