Dark Thoughts

There's a certain heaviness in the air when you move into a new house; the kind that clings to you, thick and unshakable, like dust settling into forgotten corners. I told myself it was just stress: packing, unpacking, adjusting. A fresh start should have felt like a relief, but all I felt was exhaustion.

The house itself was nothing special: three stories of dull concrete, a balcony overlooking the empty street, and a loft-style bedroom that felt more open than comforting. My husband called it practical. My sister said it had potential. My sons only cared that they each had a space of their own. But something about it felt off—not wrong, just heavy.

Maybe it was just me. Maybe I was bringing the weight of my own thoughts with me. I was used to it; this constant feeling of carrying too much, of stretching myself thin just to keep everything from falling apart. No one really noticed. That was the thing about being the strong one: people assume you're fine.

The first night, I barely slept. The ceiling above me rustled with the soft cooing of doves and the distant hoots of owls. They nestled somewhere between the wooden beams, their presence oddly comforting in the silence of the house. At least something was alive here.

Then, at exactly 3 AM, the noise stopped.

Not faded. Not lessened. Just—gone.

The silence was thick, pressing against my ears like the air had been sucked out of the room. Even our cat, usually restless at night, had gone unnervingly still, his eyes fixed on the window beside the bed. I wanted to tell myself it was nothing; that animals were just... weird sometimes. That the absence of sound was only noticeable because I was listening too hard.

But I never heard the birds again until morning.

And that was the first night. The first of many.