The world didn't end with fire or ice, but with silence. The "Great Hush" had stolen all ambient sound a decade ago. Not just voices, but the rumble of cars, the rustle of leaves, the chirping of birds. The world became a muted, visual film.
Liam, who was deaf even before the Hush, was arguably the most prepared for the new world. He navigated the quiet city streets with an ease others envied, using his eyes to 'hear' the subtle vibrations and gestures that had become the only communication.
He lived in an old music shop, a mausoleum of instruments that could no longer make a sound. He spent his days gently touching the strings of a grand piano, watching his fingers move the hammers, feeling the faint, dead thud against the wood.
One afternoon, in the dusty back room, he found an ancient, ornate music box. He wound the key.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, a single, tinny note of music warbled into the oppressive silence. It was a physical thing, a tiny, vibrating disruption in the air that Liam could feel against his fingertips and see in the faint dust motes dancing around the box. It was the first "sound" in ten years.
He froze, his heart pounding. The melody continued, a simple, sweet tune that felt impossibly loud in the dead air.
He knew immediately that this sound would attract attention. The desperate, lonely survivors of the Hush, who craved stimulus, would find him if they heard—or rather, felt—it.
Liam had a choice: He could smash the box and return to his safe, silent life. Or he could let the music play, a beacon of defiance and beauty in a world that had forgotten both.
He didn't hesitate. He picked up the music box, carried it to the open doorway of the shop, and placed it on the step, letting its tiny, courageous tune echo into the quiet, dead street. He sat down beside it, waiting for whoever might come, ready to finally share the music
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