The silence after the last call

Just poured tea in the dark, the kind that only happens when you’re awake before dawn and too tired to turn on a light. The radio’s been quiet for years now, but sometimes I still catch myself listening for the rhythm—the breath between clearances, the soft click of a frequency switching. Not for the planes, not really. For the space they left behind. It’s not peace. It’s just… presence. Like how the mug I’ve taped with masking tape still holds heat, even when it’s empty.