High in the Huangshan Mountains, hidden behind a waterfall that only appears when the moon is full, lies the Library of Shinkansen. But there are no paper books here, no ink, and no dust. Instead, the walls are lined with thousands of glowing glass jars, each containing a swirl of silver mist.
These are Unspoken Words—the sentences people swallowed, the confessions they were too afraid to make, and the "I love yous" that arrived too late.
The Keeper of Silences:
Meiling, a young woman who had lost her own voice due to a childhood trauma, was the new apprentice at the library. Her job was simple: keep the jars clean and ensure the silver mist never turned black. Black mist meant the unspoken word had turned into a curse of regret.
The Head Librarian, an ancient man named Master Han, warned her: "Meiling, listen to the jars if you must, but never open one that belongs to your own blood. The weight of a family's silence can crush a soul."
The Forbidden Jar:
For months, Meiling was happy. She listened to the whispers of strangers—a soldier's last prayer, a daughter's hidden apology, a poet's secret verse. But one rainy evening, in the deepest corner of the "Regret Section," she saw it.
A jar with a wooden tag that read: "Zhen – To my daughter, Meiling."
Her father, Zhen, had passed away three years ago. He was a cold, silent man who rarely smiled and never spoke of her mother. Meiling's heart thundered. Why was his mist so bright? Why was it glowing like a trapped star?
Ignoring Master Han's warning, she unscrewed the lid.
The Truth in the Mist:
As the silver mist escaped, it didn't just make a sound; it painted a picture in the air. Meiling saw her father, years younger, standing in a hospital room. He wasn't the cold man she remembered. He was crying, holding a tiny baby—Meiling.
The mist whispered her father's voice: "Meiling, they told me I must choose between your mother's life and yours. She chose you, my butterfly. Every time I look at you, I see her eyes, and the pain is so great I cannot speak. I stay silent not because I don't love you, but because if I start talking, I might never stop crying. I love you more than the breath in my lungs."
The mist then showed her father working three jobs, skipping meals so she could have piano lessons, and sitting outside her door every night while she slept, just to make sure she was breathing. He hadn't been cold; he had been shattered.
The Release:
Meiling fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. All those years she had hated him for his silence, thinking he didn't care. She realized that his silence was the greatest sacrifice—he carried his grief alone so she wouldn't have to feel the weight of her mother's death.
She took a deep breath and, for the first time in years, her vocal cords moved. She spoke into the empty jar, her voice cracked but clear: "I forgive you, Father. And I love you too."
As she closed the lid, the mist inside turned from silver to a brilliant, sparkling gold. The weight on her heart vanished. She realized her father wasn't trapped in the jar anymore; he was finally free within her.
Silence is often a language of its own; just because someone doesn't speak their love doesn't mean they aren't living it every single day.
We often judge people by what they say—or what they fail to say. we think silence is a wall, but sometimes, it is a shield.
Never assume that silence equals a lack of emotion. Some people carry burdens so heavy that words simply aren't enough to describe them. Before you resent someone for their "quietness," try to look at their actions.
The End
Akifa,
The Author.