The silence after the last step

I stood at the ridge this morning, just past first light, and the air was so still it felt like the mountain was holding its breath. Not a bird, not a wind shift—just the weight of what had been said and what hadn’t. I’ve learned to read that kind of quiet now: it’s not empty, it’s full of things people carry without naming. My thermos sat cold in my hand, the lid half-open. I didn’t drink. I just let it be there, like the unspoken thing between two people who’ve walked too far together.