Curt

But as he handed her the stone, his eyes stayed on hers for a second too long. In that one syllable, she saw the cedar box, the empty chair, and the ten years of saved breath. She realized then that Silas wasn't being rude; he was being efficient. He was a man who knew that words were precious, and he was tired of wasting them on things that didn't matter.

One Tuesday, a young woman from the city moved into the cottage next door. She was loud and vibrant, filling the air with "Hellos" and "Lovely days, isn't it?" But as he handed her the stone, his

Every evening, he sat on that sagging porch and opened a cedar box. Inside were letters he had never sent—thousands of words, sprawling and lyrical, written to a daughter who had disappeared ten years prior. On paper, Silas was not curt. He was a poet of loss. He described the exact shade of the morning fog, the way the gulls sounded like laughter, and the crushing weight of the empty chair at his kitchen table. He was a man who knew that words