Waking up on a summer morning should be a common sight in Grendale: birds chirping, neighbors opening their windows, the distant sound of a factory whistle. But that day, none of that happened.
Miguel Duarte, a reluctantly retired detective, turned over in bed with the strange sensation that something was missing. The sun shone through the barely closed curtains, warming the room, but the silence was so absolute it seemed to carry weight. He rose slowly, scratching his stubble, and muttered a curse, or tried to. No sound came out.
At first, he thought it was a personal crisis. Maybe his throat was blocked, maybe he was sick. He clutched his neck, coughed, and forced his voice like someone scraping rust off a door. Nothing. Just dry air.
Confused, he went to the kitchen. In the building next door, a woman was gesturing out the window with a panicked expression. Across the street, a young man ran, showing a notebook where he had hastily scribbled: CAN YOU SPEAK?
Miguel's eyes widened. It wasn't just him. It was everyone.
He left the apartment, still in his pajamas, and found more neighbors on the stairs. A teenager was tapping his cell phone, trying to make a call; on the other end, there was only silence. A mother hugged her small son, who cried soundlessly. Desperation was evident in every look.
Outside, the scene was one of contained chaos. People filled the central square, writing on scraps of paper, on cardboard boxes ripped from grocery stores, even in the dust of parked cars. Short, frantic messages:
WHAT'S HAPPENING?
IS THIS AN ATTACK?
DO YOU DREAM ABOUT THIS?
HELP!
The silence was deafening. Miguel, accustomed to the city's noise—horns, market cries, laughter in bars—felt a shiver run down his spine. Even the dogs barked voicelessly, their muzzles opening silently.
An elderly man approached him, pointing to a notepad where he had written: YOU'RE THE DETECTIVE, AREN'T YOU?
Miguel hesitated. He'd already abandoned major cases years ago. He'd promised himself never to get involved again. But that request, amidst the chaos, seemed inevitable. He took a pen from the man's pocket, took a deep breath, and replied on the same pad:
YES. BUT I DON'T KNOW IF I CAN HELP.
The man insisted, writing quickly, his handwriting shaky: IF NOBODY DISCOVERS THE REASON, WE WILL LOSE MORE THAN JUST THE VOICES.
Miguel didn't immediately understand what he meant. But when he looked around, he noticed something even more disturbing: several people were trying to write... and failing. They held pens, scratched on paper, but their hands trembled, the letters came out crooked, illegible. Some gave up, frustrated.
It wasn't enough that the city was voiceless. Little by little, it seemed they were also forgetting how to write.
Miguel closed the notebook slowly. The chill that ran down his spine wasn't just from the silence, it was from the feeling that time was against them.
And deep down, he knew: this wasn't just any mystery.