There’s something about a silent house.
That space, in between the tick, tick, tick of a clock, when the fridge stops humming, when the heating is off for the summer.
A silence lying thick in stone walls, air still and heavy.
Time feels stretched. I am an interloper, a shadow, a thought. Waiting, as dust dances in daylight, as clouds pass by in outside skies.
Any sound is amplified. A raindrop leaving a leaf, landing loud on the plastic of the conservatory roof. A sudden boom, echo… then stillness wraps itself around once more, muted, cloying.
I move invisibly from room to room both here and not. Form and dissolution.
The clock ticks on, and I wait, and wait.