Riddle About Silence Novels & Stories

~Wren~ It’s not the darkness that will drive me mad, but the silence. The complete void of noise that is so quiet that it’s deafening. My ears ring as I strain to hear anything I can, yet… nothing comes. No one comes. Just like no one stepped up to help me.

The first time I met silence was at the back of an empty classroom. My new classroom to be exact. I thought I'd come in early, get used to the room and start from there. "Lessons begin at nine-thirty and it's only eight so I've got some alone time." The statement I held in my head was strung up in hope and sheer belief. "I mean there's no way there'll be students here at this hour. I'm sure they're all still asleep after the Spring festival last night... right?"

Until they became silent. A very deafening silence. Why?

crestfallen souls' muffled cries, voluble minds of the wide awake who appears to be nocturnal, and mysteries that emerge when the world is in deep dark shadow They're to blame for how deafening silence can be at times. "You're quiet" I said. "Silence isn't quiet." he responded. I looked at him immediately. "The parting of vanilla clouds from the sky isn't as quiet as silence. The banging of hammer and thunder is not silence, but the banging of hammer and thunder. Silence is a yearning attention, not a reserve emotion. It's the sound of lungs gasping for air while barely breathing. It's the kind of chest that tears itself away from your ribcage, yearning to be heard and assured.."

Everything stops! Silence.

He was still inside, probably finishing his drink, probably telling himself that I just needed a minute to calm down. I reached into my evening bag and pulled out the small, leather-bound journal I had started keeping. I flipped to the last entry and picked up the pen tucked into the spine. August 12th, I wrote, my hand surprisingly steady. Tonight, I realized that silence isn't just a lack of noise. It’s a weapon. And Gideon is an expert at wielding it.

The world felt fragile, like a story written in wet ink. When the wind shifted, I heard it: a faint crackle, almost beneath hearing. It was the kind of sound you’d miss if you didn’t know what silence was supposed to be. “Do you hear that?” I asked. Lena paused mid-bite. “Hear what?” The static came again, brief but distinct—a pulse through the empty streets, like a whisper trying to form words. My chest tightened. It was impossible, yet unmistakable. I rose slowly. “Stay here.”

We both stand there, cold wind freezing the blood in our faces as we look over the city lights and at the frozen waters far down below. “So what do you do when you come here? Nothing?” I ask. “Silence. I enjoy the silence,” he tells me simply. I pause before speaking again. “I hate silence, it’s boring and scary, and… I just hate being left alone with my scrambled thoughts,” I tell him. “Sometimes silence can mean not entertaining your thoughts too. Just peace and stillness from everything, especially your thoughts,” he explains, turning to me. “How?” “Just don’t think.”

The intensity in her eyes held the promise of unspoken words, a silent accusation that hung heavy in the air. Amidst this visual symphony of emotions, the clinking of cutlery against plates resonated, punctuating the stillness with its metallic melody. The sound seemed to magnify the silence, highlighting the emptiness of the space between us. Each scrape and clatter felt like a tiny earthquake, threatening to shatter the fragile equilibrium that held us captive.

"What about a woman?" There was a long pause, complete silence. We looked at each other but our expressions were blank not sure what to do or say. The ringing sounds of bells and speakers weren't even able to make us flinch. I knew exactly what was happening. We were missing the train; again but there was little to no space left to think about that. We were preoccupied about something else. This is day I learnt that silence can feel deadly when it is considered as the elephant in the room.