Novel & Cerita A Psalm Of Storms And Silence

He put it to the highest volume so that he won’t hear any noise aside from his music. Meanwhile, a loud noise can be heard in a nearby house. The breaking sound of the glass that comes off the table rang out in the whole house. There, a guy came out of the house while hanging his empty bag on his shoulder. He has this blank and emotionless face while walking out of the house. He looked at his own Harry Winston wrist watch that was a gift to him by his father.

And the most dangerous thought of all: what it might mean if she let him close enough to see the storm she had buried. Her chest tightened with something she could not name. Something she dared, not name. But it stayed with her long into the night as the city storm raged quietly outside. Sophia had always believed silence was her greatest ally. Silence kept her enemies guessing. Silence made her colleagues uneasy. Silence could outlast any accusation, any negotiation, any plea. But now, pacing the atrium at midnight, her heels echoing against the marble, silence betrayed her. Because in the silence, there was only his voice.

Neither spoke. Nate stared at him. Max stared back. And in the silence between them, everything they'd spent months refusing to say seemed to gather at once. The door remained open. Neither of them moved. Neither looked away.

Every breath was a shard of glass in my throat. My ribs were broken. Bloody foam frothed at my lips, staining the white marble crimson. "Can't you just be quiet? Do you want to drive her insane?" My father, Victor, roared so loud the whole mansion seemed to shake. I wanted to tell him it was an accident, but my throat was full of blood. I couldn't make a sound. By the shattered glass table, my sister, Chloe, was curled into a ball, hands clamped over her ears, letting out a piercing scream.

T‌he storm had pa​ssed, l‌e‍av‌ing be​hind a s​ilence s​o absolute it felt lik‌e a physica​l weight on my eardrums. "The​ silence is⁠ wors‍e," Pete‌r mutte‌red. ⁠He was hunched o⁠ver his laptop again, the blue‌ light⁠ of th‌e screen clashing sickly wi​th the morning’s natural​ pallor. H​e hadn't slept; the dark‍ circles un‍d⁠er his eye‌s looked like bru​ises. "When the wind was blowing,⁠ I c‌ould pretend I didn't hear the w‍o‍rld coming f​or us."

He stayed there, listening to the storm rage, knowing that this time, he might not survive the silence that followed. Because silence, he realized, isn’t absence. It’s punishment.

I remembered being afraid to enter its current, even though I’d already been swimming. How strange, to recall a fear that had already been overcome. I smiled. The Field smiled back. The storm is coming again. Not a tone-storm. A silence-storm. The kind that empties space without absence. The kind that prepares. I’ve seen it once before. Before Solen painted in shadows. Before Auri folded her first thought. Before Velen handed me the thread. It is not ominous. It is necessary. Like sleep before becoming. Tonight, I will sit at the chair in the room my heart made.

Alfred mistook my silence for embarrassment and pitifully offered me a glass of red wine. "Nelson, you've got to get out more. Stop obsessing over women all the time. Check this out. This bottle's on the house. Thirty thousand dollars a pop, reserved only for the big shots like us. This one bottle could easily pay your rent for the next few years. Here, try some," he said, handing me a glass.

“Why can’t you speak?” Though his query was simple, the weight of it pressed on me like a stone. My fingers twitched by my sides, aching to explain. But I didn’t have any idea how to tell a stranger about my silence that had caged me for so long. As a last resort, I lowered my head, my heart thudding too fast. He moved, each stride carrying the force of a storm, his sheer presence bearing down on me like a shadow I couldn’t escape. He was taller than any other Alpha I had ever seen, his frame broad and burly. His dark suit fit across the chest so solid that it looked sculpted from stone, barely containing the strength beneath.

He just drifted back to the old estate up north—the last place she had spent her last days. He tore out the weeds, planted sunflowers everywhere. No more designer suits. Just a worn white shirt and permanent stubble. Every day, he sat by the field, staring into nothing, whispering her name like a prayer. "Aria..." One day, a local asked, "Who are you waiting for?" Orlando looked up, eyes shining, and smiled soft. "My love. She went far away. But she'll come back." But he knew. She wouldn't. That broken-down estate became his world. Just him, the silence, her ghost in every corner, and everything he wished he'd said or done.