Nothing comes back.
A week of it. Then a month.
We stop checking around then.
And somewhere in the stopping we decide what the quiet meant.
Wasn't meant to be.
Wasn't aligned.
But quiet is the one thing that tells us nothing.
No answer in it and no verdict.
Just a gap we can't stand leaving open.
So we fill it and call the filling fate.
Then it turns up.
An ordinary morning months after we'd written it off.
Still moving the whole time.
The quiet never said it was over.
We did.