We had stopped talking long before the world fell apart. Because words were dangerous. Noise brought the dead. When the infection spread, people screamed. But the ones who lived longest were the ones who learned to be quiet. And we were very good at living. Sam and I built a life in silence. A grocery basement became our world. We padded the walls with foam. Taped blankets over the doors. Grew mushrooms in buckets. Collected condensation in jars. When we needed each other, we tapped the floor twice. When we were scared, we pressed our backs together. When we wanted to say I love you, we just stared and let the tears fall. There was a rhythm to our quiet. In the morning, we'd sit together and listen to the world breathe. Afternoons, we'd sort supplies in complete stillness. At night, we held each other—hearing only heartbeats and breath. And when we kissed, it was soft. One day, a family stumbled in. A mother, a father, a child. The dead came within the hour. We hid beneath the freezer shelf. Sam covered my mouth with his hand as I trembled. I held his wrist so tightly I thought I might snap it. The family didn't survive. Their screams were short. But not sacred silence. After that, we stopped using our taps. Stopped writing notes. Even our hands forgot how to say anything. For the familiar rhythm of breath. The subtle creak of movement. The sigh he made when his dreams turned dark. I remember the day he didn't sigh. Complete, unnatural stillness. Mouth parted slightly. I sat with him for hours. Ran my fingers along his jaw. Then pressed my lips to his chest, listening. But all I heard was the hum of silence. Before I left, I carved a single word into the wall with the tip of my knife: Because even in a world that had forgotten how to listen, we had. To the quiet that held us like arms. Now, wherever I go, I carry our silence with me.