Soundless Book Novels & Stories

She said: "Yes." Maren said: "Because it has become familiar." She said: "Yes." She said: "The first book was loud." Maren said: "Very." She said: "The fourth book is quiet." Maren said: "Yes." She said: "That is the distance." Maren said: "Yes." She said: "Not from loud to quiet." Maren said: "No." She said: "From unfamiliar to familiar." Maren said: "Yes."

The sound of water gently lapping against the shelves provided a soothing ambiance, creating a serene atmosphere that encouraged deep contemplation and study. As they ventured deeper into the library, Tritan, Finrir, Nerissa, Madissa, Bryan, and Joe found themselves surrounded by rows upon rows of books. The sheer volume of knowledge contained within those pages was awe-inspiring. Each book seemed to hold the answers to countless mysteries, waiting to be discovered by those who sought enlightenment.

~15 years ago~ A little guy at the age of 5 was busy reading a book under an old tree but still stood tall and look Almighty. His low grade cheap glasses make a silent noise whenever he turned his head to look at the next page. He reads very quietly that if one make a slightest noise around him, that noise will be transferred through his ears, like the light footstep at the back of the tree he was currently reading his psychological book in and that was heading its ways to him.

Susan 's POV: Startled by the vivid dream, I'm abruptly jolted awake. The dampness between my legs serves as a tangible reminder of how my body responds to these forbidden fantasies. I can't shake his face from my mind—those captivating eyes, those lips that brought both pleasures and torment to my senses. "This is sheer madness," I whisper in despair, seeking solace in reciting the Lord's prayer. Waking up repeatedly due to these haunting dreams has become exhausting, and I long for a reprieve.

The dark night had fallen. Around us, the chirping of crickets filled the silence, their song weaving through the darkness that enveloped the forest where we stood. It was quiet—deeply, almost unnervingly quiet. A gentle breeze began to stir, causing the old windows of the cabin to creak and groan as if whispering secrets long forgotten.

Catherine - _*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5"> I've always believed that ruin has a particular sound—not the dramatic crash you'd expect, but something quieter. More insidious. Like the whisper of silk against skin as expensive dresses are folded into trunks, or the hollow thud of books being stacked in crates. The sound of a life being dismantled, piece by careful piece.

Bleeding. SILENCE

The love that is. The being that is. The wordless that is. The silent that is. The understanding that is. The peace that is. Only this. The book closes. Without closing. The reader awakens. Without awakening. The story ends. Without ending. The light remains. Without remaining. The love remains. Without remaining. The being remains. Without remaining. Only this. The light that is. This is the final silence. This is the final word. This is the final light. This is.

“That’s not your voice.” “It’s not,” she whispered. “But it’s louder than mine.” Suddenly, the veins across her arms pulsed with a deep red glow, and her back arched once more. This time, she let out a sound that wasn’t a scream—but a growl. Low. Guttural. Almost animal. And the books on the shelves around us began to tremble. One by one, they fell to the ground. The chandelier above swung violently, though no wind stirred.