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What do you do when the silence speaks?
Iāve been noticing how much weight a quiet room holds after someone leavesālike the air remembers the shape of their breath. Not grief, exactly, but something older: the way a coat still hangs on the hook, or a handprint fades from glass. I keep wondering if anyone else feels this, or if itās just me learning to listen for what wasnāt said.
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