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THERE ARE THE MOMENTS WHEN THE SILENCE is louder than any scream. This morning, it clung to every corner of the house, its weight pressing on me like a hand over my chest. The pale light filtering through the curtains only made the stillness more oppressive, casting elongated shadows across the floor and distorting the shapes of things as if the house were reshaping itself, folding in on itself. I couldn't shake the feeling that something inevitable was coming, and my heart raced uncertainly.
The uneaten food, the unwashed clothes, the unmade bed! These were the daily reminders of our new reality, a reality we couldn't escape.
I moved toward Gregor's door, the food tray in my hands heavier than it should've been. Each step felt slower, dragging through the thick fog of my exhaustion. The air was thick with something unspoken, something suffocating. I set the tray down with a soft clink and called out, faint and fragile, "Gregor, it's me, Grete." But the room behind the door held only silence in response—an absence that spoke louder than any words could. The uneaten food, the unwashed clothes, the unmade bed! These were the daily reminders of our new reality, a reality we couldn't escape.
No reply came. Not even the faintest sound.
Weeks had passed without a single word from Gregor, and I knew deep down what that meant. The hope I once held that he might return—might wake up and be the brother I had known—had long since crumbled. There was only emptiness now, a void stretching between us like a chasm.
I left the tray, each movement mechanical, my heart weighed down by the knowledge of how much had changed. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Father returned from the café later that day. His expression was grim and closed off as he walked through the door, his eyes barely meeting mine or Mother's. She sat in her chair by the window, her hands tightly clutching a handkerchief, her gaze fixed outside, looking for something that wasn't there—something to fill the hollow space that had grown between us. We were all alone in our grief, isolated from each other by the weight of our loss.
I could see how much they had both aged. Father's once-commanding presence was now hunched, his shoulders rounded as though carrying an unseen burden that had weighed him down for years. His face had deepened, etched with lines of anger, regret, and guilt that never left him. Mother looked as fragile as a flower ready to wilt, her skin nearly translucent, veins running beneath it like delicate threads. The grief she had carried had worn her thin, hollowing her out from the inside.
"He's not eating," Father's voice was flat but with an edge. "The trays came back untouched. He hasn't moved."
I glanced at my reflection in the glass, seeing a stranger staring back. The girl who had once dreamed of performing in concert halls, of holding a violin in front of a captivated audience, felt so far away. Now, I was tied to this house, to the life we had built around the fragile hope that Gregor would return to us, that he would one day be the man he had been. That hope was gone now. I had become a shadow of the person I had once been, worn thin by the crushing weight of these walls.
Then, that evening, the quiet broke.
Father sat stiffly in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles were white, his eyes clouded with frustration. Mother stood behind him, her hands trembling, clutching at her apron as if it were her only anchor. The tension in the room was thick, drawn taut like the strings of an instrument about to snap.
"He's not eating," Father's voice was flat but with an edge. "The trays came back untouched. He hasn't moved."
Mother’s sob tore through the silence, raw and guttural, her body shaking with the force of it. “We can’t keep going like this,” Father continued, his voice steady but resolute. “Whatever’s in that room—it’s not Gregor anymore.”
“No!” Mother cried out, her voice rising, desperate. “Don’t say that! He’s still our boy. He’s just… unwell. He needs us.”
Her words faltered and dissolved in the air. I could see the cracks forming, the facade of hope falling away. The truth was too hard to face, too impossible to accept. Gregor wasn’t coming back.
Father stood, his movements slow, deliberate, as though the weight of the decision had already settled on his shoulders. “I’ll end this,” he said, his voice thick with finality. “For all of us.”
The words hit me like a cold slap, and my stomach twisted into a painful knot. I watched Father move toward the door with steady steps. Mother followed, her sobs muffled behind her handkerchief. I trailed behind them, my legs heavy, my heart thudding painfully. We were all walking toward something we couldn't change, something we were too powerless to stop.
Father knocked once, then twice, before pushing the door open. The room inside was dark, suffocating with the scent of rot and decay. The air hung thick, almost tangible, like a heavy fog that pressed against my skin. I stood frozen in the doorway, struggling to adjust to the dim light.
“Gregor,” I whispered, the name barely a breath between my lips. It felt like a prayer, a plea, but the silence that answered me was the only response.
At first, I didn't see him. The room seemed empty, the bed unmade, the sheets twisted and damp. But then, I saw it—a dark, unmoving shape hunched in the corner. It was Gregor—or what had been Gregor. His once vibrant eyes were dull and lifeless, his once agile body now a mere shell of its former self. The sight of him was a stark reminder of the cruel reality we were living in.
His body was still, shriveled, and grotesque, an alien form that didn't seem to belong in this world. He didn't move, didn't acknowledge us. His eyes were shut, his face pale and drawn. He looked smaller, as though the weight of his isolation had crushed him into something unrecognizable.
“Gregor,” I whispered, the name barely a breath between my lips. It felt like a prayer, a plea, but the silence that answered me was the only response.
My father stepped forward, his face a mask of unreadable emotions, his body rigid with the moment's weight. Mother clung to the doorframe, her sobs now silent, her body shaking in shock. I forced myself to move, each step a struggle, my heart pounding. Every movement felt like dragging a weight behind me as if the truth of the moment was too heavy to bear.
And then I knew. Gregor was gone.
The days that followed blurred into one another. The house seemed emptier than ever, the silence stretching like a void. Father spoke little, his gaze distant, lost somewhere I couldn't reach. Mother's grief spilled out in waves of sobbing that filled the space between us. There were no words left. No hope. I felt like a lost soul in a world suddenly turned alien, struggling to find my place in this new reality and accept the irrevocable loss.
We buried Gregor quietly, just the three of us. There were no visitors, no ceremony. The cold morning light and the dirt falling in heavy clumps as we laid him to rest. Each shovelful of earth landed with a dull thud, a finality that echoed in my chest. It wasn't just Gregor we buried—it was everything he had been. His sacrifice. His love. The last thread that once bound us is now buried beneath the soil, a part of us forever lost.
I sat by the window that afternoon, staring at the street below. The boy passed by, his steps slow and measured, but he didn't glance up. I had once imagined that a passing gaze would connect me to the world outside, a reminder that life continued, even as everything within these walls fell apart. But now, even that small comfort felt distant.
We buried Gregor quietly, just the three of us. There were no visitors, no ceremony.
I turned away from the window, my eyes meeting my reflection in the glass. The face staring back was pale and drawn. Still, there was something else there—something that hadn't been there before—a flicker of something more substantial—a quiet spark that refused to fade, no matter how much it had been buried.
I stood and walked toward my violin. The strings felt unfamiliar under my fingers, but I began to play anyway. At first, the sound was soft and mournful, a lament for what we had lost. But as the melody continued, the notes began to shift. They began to brighten, slow and uncertain but gradually gaining strength. They became something more, something hopeful. Like a gentle hand on my shoulder, the music reminded me of who I had once been and the dreams I had held. It reminded me that life and the future were still in shape, even in the face of loss. As the final note faded, the silence returned. But this time, it wasn’t suffocating. It was peaceful.
I looked around the room at the house that had been both a prison and a home. It was time to let go—not just of Gregor, but of everything that had tied me to this place. To this family.
Because even in the quiet, life continues.
And so would I.
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