It’s quiet here. It’s always quiet.

Around doorframes, down hallways, through the cracks; that’s how the noise gets around-- wispy and bright and confusingly good-smelling. The blue shimmers try to seep under my door; I can feel the pulse.
But not my door. My door is floor-to-ceiling. Shut tighter than an oyster with its pearl held close to its fleshy center.

I haven’t heard a thing for years.

And suddenly, I feel as if I must.

I thrust my palm forward, and the door creaks open on tired hinges.

I am overcome by the bluish wisps

and I hear a ringing.

Then I hear nothing, once more.