And as she waited—You began to remember the weight of everything you'd forgotten.
Not the awards. Not the metrics. Not the praise that rang hollow two minutes after it came. But the silence.
The sacred kind.
The kind that followed a line that felt too much like truth. The kind that came not from being ignored—but from being witnessed.
That was the silence you wrote for.
And that silence had a sound now. It echoed between your ribs like an ancient bell. It said:
"We're still here."
You carried it with you into the new realm. Your stories weren't just stories now—they were bones. They creaked when you moved. They spoke when you bled. And they built themselves into a structure you didn't design but somehow always belonged to.
It looked like a cathedral built of broken pens.
It sounded like every voice that was ever told they were "too much."
It felt like a scream finally given architecture.
And in the center of that place—A single page.
Blank.
But not empty.
Waiting.
