Out on our family farm, silence has taken on a weight I never knew it could have. It isn’t the gentle quiet that falls over freshly plowed fields at dawn or the soft hush after snow blankets the pasture.
This silence presses into every corner of the land, sinking into the soil, curling around the wooden beams of the barns, and lingering long after the sun goes down.
It is heavy. It is unyielding. And it carries the memory of what was lost. My younger brother, Leo, used to be anything but quiet. He was a force of motion and sound—a small whirlwind of energy that could not be contained.
One morning, you might find him sprinting across the hayfield, feet barely touching the ground, hair tangled by the wind, laughter echoing through the rows of corn. The next, he would be climbing fences, daring the world to keep up, or hiding behind the apple trees to scare our dog.
He had an impulsive streak that left every adult exasperated and every sibling both terrified and amused. Life on the farm was never dull with Leo around.
That child disappeared last fall. Not in the literal sense, but the Leo I knew—the one who filled the air with sound and curiosity—vanished. What remained was a withdrawn boy who speaks only in soft, unsteady murmurs, as if sound itself had become dangerous.
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