The reading room was
empty. She was the only
one, a small figure at
the long oak table.
Rain slid down the
windowpanes, tracing
silver rivers. The clock
on the wall ticked, a
dry, patient heartbeat.
She didn't read. She
just listened. To the
drum of water on glass.
To the sigh of the
heating vents. To the
immense, soft silence
that held everything.
A car passed, tires
hissing on the wet
street. Then it was
gone, and the quiet
returned, deeper than
before.
She closed her book. The
sound was a small, final
chord.
The storm was the only conversation, and she was content to be its audience.