The silence in the house didn’t just happen; it settled like dust.
Kevin woke up because the hum of the refrigerator had stopped. He was four, and the dark usually felt like a blanket, but tonight it felt like a weight. He crawled out of bed, his feet silent on the carpet, and padded toward his sister Kaylee’s room. "Kaylee?" he whispered.
He went downstairs. The television was on, tuned to a channel that didn't exist—just a loop of black-and-white cartoons from the 1930s, flickering and silent. The light from the screen cast long, twitching shadows of the Legos scattered across the floor. "Mom? Dad?"