Mira had grown used to silence. The world had gone quiet years ago, or at least her part of it had. She walked through abandoned streets where the wind whistled through broken windows, convincing herself that maybe she was the last one left.
One gray morning, while exploring the ruins of an old library, she noticed a metal box half-buried under fallen shelves. It wasn't like anything she'd seen before—smooth, with faint lights that flickered as if it were breathing.
Her hands trembled as she pressed a button. A burst of static filled the air.
Then—words.
"Is anyone out there?"
Mira's heart raced. She pressed another button and whispered, "Yes."
There was silence, then a voice, shaky but alive: "I thought I was the only one."
For the first time in years, Mira smiled. She wasn't alone after all.
The device pulsed softly in her hands, no longer just a machine, but a doorway—proof that the world still had voices, still had hope.
And for the first time, Mira dared to believe the silence might finally end.
Got it — here's an expanded version with supernatural elements woven in:
The Voice Beyond the SilenceMira had grown used to silence. It wasn't just the absence of people—it was heavier than that, as if the world itself had decided to stop speaking. The rivers ran soundless, birds moved their wings but never sang, and when Mira spoke aloud, her voice echoed back too clearly, too sharply, like the world resented her breaking its stillness.
She wandered the ruins of old cities, convinced she was the last thread left in a tapestry that had unraveled. Most nights, she slept in abandoned houses, whispering stories to herself so she wouldn't forget the sound of language.
One gray morning, while exploring the wreckage of a library, Mira noticed a faint glow in the dust. Pushing aside broken wood and crumbling books, she uncovered a strange metal box. It wasn't rusted or cracked like everything else—its surface was smooth, humming faintly with energy. A sigil glowed faintly on its lid: a spiral of light, shifting as if alive.
Her fingers brushed it, and the sigil flared. The silence shattered with a burst of static.
Then came a voice.
"Is anyone out there?"
Mira froze. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt. She hadn't heard another human voice in years. She swallowed, pressed the only button she could see, and whispered, "Yes."
The device vibrated in her hands. A pause stretched out before the voice returned, trembling with relief.
"I thought I was the only one."
Mira wanted to weep, but before she could answer, something else happened. The air around her shifted. The shadows in the ruined library seemed to lean closer, stretching unnaturally toward the glowing box. She heard whispers—low, layered, like many voices speaking at once, though none in a language she knew.
The voice from the device spoke again, urgent now.
"You have to be careful. The silence isn't empty. It listens."
Her blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"
The device crackled. "The world was broken. The stillness you live in—it's not natural. It's a veil. Every time you speak, every sound you make, something on the other side hears you. That's why so few of us dare to answer."
Mira's gaze darted around the ruined library. The shadows continued to waver, bending toward her like hungry things. She realized then that maybe she hadn't been truly alone all this time—just unaccompanied by the living.
The voice continued. "The box you found—it's called a Resonator. It's one of the last bridges between survivors. But it also attracts Them."
As if on cue, a gust of icy wind blew through the shattered windows. Mira clutched the device tighter.
"What do I do?" she whispered.
Static roared for a long moment before the reply came: "Meet me. Follow the signal. The Resonator will guide you. But don't speak too loudly. Don't let Them hear your name."
The sigil on the box pulsed brighter, casting a protective circle of pale light. Beyond it, Mira could see shadows thickening into forms—long-limbed figures pressing against the edges of the glow, their eyeless faces twitching as if sniffing for her.
She had never believed in hope, not really. But now, holding the device, hearing another human voice, Mira understood something: she was no longer walking through silence. She was walking through a haunted world, a world that wanted her to believe she was alone—because that made her easier prey.
She tightened her grip on the Resonator, lifted her pack, and stepped into the night. The shadows followed, whispering, but the voice in the device whispered back, guiding her.
And for the first time in years, Mira didn't just hope—she believed.
The silence wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.
Nadia – Slavic: "hope"
A voice in the back of my head a whisper in my ears a twitch in the atmosphere
Some habits are implemented in your life-when did they start are unknown
One that is known through is writing, not the stores but the truth the hope and the life.
Letters spread eretically around the floor and in the middle of it lays Nadia a paper in front of her a pencil in one hand writing calmly
Entry-day 1981
It's been almost four years and a half since the last time i felt a warm breath a tight hug a live voice echoing through the air .
It's been a lot more than i can handle i'm starting to feel the paranoia creeping in my spine, the whisper in the darkness, the shadows under my lashes