The Silence

Nothing had happened.

That was the first fact of Wednesday. I woke, lay still, listened. The room was quiet. The flat was quiet. The street was quiet beyond the window. I got up, made coffee.

The calendar was on the wall. October 14 was still circled, still in my hand. I looked away, drank half the coffee, left the rest in the cup. The circle stayed on the wall behind me. I worked with my back to it.

It was another quiet day. I sat at the desk, ran the numbers, built the tables for a report due Friday. It would be done early. A call came in — the client wanted the report sooner. I said I could. He said the meeting had moved. I said that was fine. It was fine. I worked until the light at the window changed. I made rice, ate. Rinsed the pot, stood it to dry.

After lunch I did exercises on the floor. Push-ups, stretches. My arms shook a little by the end. It was ordinary. In the afternoon I walked the long way — the bridge, the school, the corner shop. A train went under the bridge. The streets were quiet. Everyone was at work. That was the time of day. A dog watched from a doorway. It did not bark. The corner shop was open, the light on inside. I walked past. That was all.

The earbuds were in the drawer. I had stopped flinching at them without noticing when. The drawer was just a drawer again. In the evening I opened it, took them out. The wire was frayed, the left one dead. I put them in the way I used to, and went out. The street came through — a van, a door closing, a woman calling her child. Ordinary sound. No static. I walked the block, took the long way to the bridge and back. The city lay below, ordinary, lit. I came home.

I almost relaxed.

The hall light was on. The hall was dark when I left. I turned it off again. The switch was old. I put the earbuds in the drawer, closed it, went to bed.

No static. No dream. I slept through the night, woke rested. That was Wednesday.

Thursday morning I made tea, sat down with it. The tea was cold. The kettle had just stopped. The heat had gone somewhere. I drank it anyway. The cup went in the rack. The flat was tidy. I left it tidy. I went into the office.

Chen Wei was at his desk.

‘Tired, Zhang Hao,’ he said.

I looked at my phone. There was nothing on it. I put it down.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. I smiled.

He nodded. He looked at me a second longer, then away. ‘The dataset came through,’ he said. ‘The vendor padded the rows. Copied the same month twice.’

‘He’ll notice,’ I said.

‘He’ll ask,’ Chen Wei said. ‘I’ll tell him we caught it.’

‘The vendor is new,’ he said. ‘They want the contract.’

‘The rows are the same rows,’ I said. ‘January twice. The numbers line up too well.’

‘He wants it clean,’ he said.

‘It will be clean,’ I said.

We talked about the dataset, then the report, then Friday. It was work I knew. The talk was easy. The easiest of the week. He handed me a coffee.

I took it. It was hot. I drank half of it. The rest cooled on my desk.

I took the long way home. I made soup, ate. Washed the pot, wiped the counter, wrung the cloth. The bathroom door stood open a crack. I had closed it. I closed it again. The window in the bedroom was open; the draught moved the doors in that flat.

I told myself it was over. I sat at the window. The calendar was on the wall behind the lamp. I did not turn around. The street was empty. The city was quiet. The flat was quiet — the fridge, the pipes, the ordinary sounds. The fridge stopped. The pipes ticked.

Nothing had happened for days. That was what I told myself. The quiet was not peace. It was listening.