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THE SILENCE IN THE HOUSE was suffocating, thick like smoke that settled in every corner and choked the air we breathed. It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was the kind that builds a wall around you—sharp, unyielding, and heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. Every sound seemed amplified, from the scrape of my shoes on the floor to the distant hum of the outside world, which felt miles away. The walls that had once kept us safe now felt like a trap, closing in tighter with every passing hour. I felt isolated, trapped in a world of our family's struggles.
Gregor's door remained locked. On the kitchen counter, yesterday's tray sat untouched, the food cold and lifeless, just like the hopes I kept trying to hold on to. Mother hadn't left her room, murmuring about feeling unwell. At the same time, Father was gone—likely escaping to the café to bury his bitterness in coffee we couldn't afford. The rhythm of our days had turned into something mechanical, not comforting, but burdened by an unshakable certainty that things would never change.
How much longer could this last?
I scrubbed the floors, wiped down the tables, and dusted the surfaces, trying to make the house look clean as if that would somehow clean the wounds in our lives. The dust was easier to remove than the cracks that ran deep through our family; the shadows clung to every room like a reminder of everything that had gone wrong. I was trying to cleanse the intangible, the invisible weight of our brokenness, but it never left. I felt the weight of our family's struggles on my shoulders, a burden I couldn't shake off.
I placed the tray down and stood there, hand hovering over the doorknob, afraid of what I might find. "Gregor," I whispered, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. "Please eat. Please talk to me."
As I wiped the mantle, my eyes lingered on the family portrait. It was a photograph from years ago when Gregor and I were still children before everything became fractured. Father stood proud, his hand resting on Mother's shoulder as if holding her up. Gregor and I were in front, smiling, the innocence of youth captured forever. The faces in the photograph were strangers to me now, ghosts from a life that no longer existed.
I barely recognized myself in that girl, so full of light, nor did I realize the man Gregor had become behind his locked door. Where had that family gone? The one that used to laugh, that used to dream? The past felt like a foreign land, distant and unreachable. With a heavy heart, I returned the photograph to its place, not wanting to linger on the memories that only made my sorrow deeper.
That evening, I approached Gregor's door with a fresh food tray. My footsteps felt heavier. The air around me was thick with fear and unspoken words. I placed the tray down and stood there, hand hovering over the doorknob, afraid of what I might find.
"Gregor," I whispered, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. "Please eat. Please talk to me."
No response. Just the same oppressive silence. My hand lingered on the door for a moment before I heard it—the faint scraping sound from inside the room. It was deliberate, heavier than anything I had heard before. My heart skipped a beat, and I froze, every muscle tense with fear.
I wanted to open the door. I wanted to see Gregor, to make him face me, but a wave of dread stopped me. What if I saw something I couldn't unsee? What if Gregor was no longer the brother I remembered but something else entirely?
I turned away, leaving the tray untouched, the cold silence swallowing me whole. I couldn't keep chasing Gregor, couldn't keep knocking on a door that wouldn't open.
Later that night, as I lay in bed, memories began to flood back to me, uninvited and painful. They were fragments of a past that felt more like a dream than reality.
I remember Gregor teaching me to ride a bicycle when I was eight. His laughter was pure and carefree as I wobbled down the street. His hands steadying me, his voice full of encouragement, had been my light. It had been so easy to love him then and trust in his strength and protection.
I remembered the first time I played my violin for him. My hands were trembling, but his applause was loud and sincere. He had been so proud of me that day, and for the first time, I felt seen and understood. My music had mattered because Gregor believed in it.
And then, I remembered the letter. The raw, painful words Gregor had written:
“I wish I could protect you from it, Grete, but I can barely protect myself.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks as the realization hit me like a thunderclap. Gregor had always carried so much for us, shielding us from the worst. But I had been blind to his struggles, so wrapped up in my grief that I hadn't seen how he was slowly breaking under the weight.
For those few minutes, I felt whole again. The music reminded me of who I had been before everything fractured. It wasn’t just an escape—it was a thread, a lifeline to the girl I used to be, to the life I still longed for.
The following day, I stood by the window, staring at the boy who had passed our house many times before. This time, he didn't stop. His head was down, his steps quick, as though he was trying to escape whatever had once caught his attention in our house.
I turned away, my chest tight. I had convinced myself that Gregor's fleeting glances were a lifeline, a sign that the world outside still existed. But now, even that fragile connection was gone. It felt like one more piece of the life I had clung to was slipping away.
The weight of everything pressed down on me as I tried to move through the day. My hands shook as I reached for the violin. It had been weeks since I last played, but the pull was irresistible. I lifted it against my shoulder and began to play.
The first notes were unsure, trembling, and raw. But soon, the music began to flow—wild and uncontrolled, each note a cry, a release of everything I had kept locked inside—anger, pain, longing. The music surged through me, crashing against the silence, drowning it out, if only for a moment.
For those few minutes, I felt whole again. The music reminded me of who I had been before everything fractured. It wasn’t just an escape—it was a thread, a lifeline to the girl I used to be, to the life I still longed for.
Then came the crash.
A sudden, sharp noise from Gregor’s room shattered the moment. Something heavy had fallen, and my heart leaped in my chest.
“Gregor?” I called, my voice trembling. There was no answer. Only the suffocating silence that followed.
I set the violin down and rushed to the door, pressing my ear against the wood. “Gregor, are you all right?" I called louder this time, but there was still nothing.
The silence stretched deeper and darker. It wasn't the usual stillness I had expected—it was filled with an unspoken finality, an unshakable weight. I backed away from the door, my hands shaking, the fear tightening around my chest like a vice.
But even in the darkest moments, I couldn't give up. Not yet. I clung to a flicker of hope, believing we could piece ourselves together.
That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the crash, the deep silence that followed, and the broken fragments of our family scattered like shards of glass. Each of us, Gregor, Father, Mother, and me, was broken in our way, retreating into our world of pain and isolation. The weight of our collective loss was palpable, a heavy shroud that enveloped us all.
But even in the darkest moments, I couldn't give up. Not yet. I clung to a flicker of hope, believing we could piece ourselves together. Despite the fractures, we could find a way to become something more than the sum of our broken parts.
Because deep down, I still believed we could piece ourselves back together. Despite the fractures, we could find a way to become something more than the sum of our broken parts. But as I closed my eyes, a nagging thought tugged at me:
Time was running out. And I wasn’t sure there was enough left to fix what had been shattered.
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