Silence used to feel empty

 Silence used to feel empty.

After you left, the house grew too still. No sound of paws on the hardwood. No playful bark to break the air. Even the hum of everyday life seemed swallowed by grief.

At first, I hated the quiet. It felt like loss had stolen every trace of you. But in time, I learned something unexpected—silence is not the absence of you. Silence is where you live now.

When I close my eyes and sit with the stillness, I feel you there. Not loud, not obvious, but closer than quiet. Like a soft warmth brushing against my skin. Like a heartbeat that isn’t mine alone.

You’ve become part of the spaces in between—the pause before I drift to sleep, the hush of morning light, the quiet breath I take when missing you feels too heavy. In those moments, I know you’re near.

Someday, the quiet will break with joy again—when we meet at the Rainbow Bridge. I’ll hear you once more, see you running, feel your weight as you jump into my arms. Until then, I’ll hold you in the silence. And in that silence, you will always hold me.

Closer than quiet. Closer than forever.