Quiet

When he speaks, words flutter out of his throat, seeking refuge in the corners of his mouth, so that when they're finally out in the open, they settle on the listener like small, white butterflies, feather-light, and entirely all the more affecting.

Mine is well-modulated, bouncing off the walls, addressing an invisible audience wherever I go. I announce, So, I remember the time I broke my two front teeth on a glass table when I was one and a half, freely, to anyone who might want to know this little, insignificant fact about myself.

He leans in close, nevertheless, to listen to my stories. This is new, I will tell myself, there is nothing like this anywhere in the world.

For now, I will be still. There is always the dawn to look forward to.