After the divorce, I finally learned what silence really sounds like. At first, I thought freedom would taste sweeter — but the house was too quiet, too heavy with memories of Harge and the years I spent pretending everything was fine. I couldn’t bear to stay there too long. Every corner reminded me of Rindy’s laughter, of a life that doesn’t quite belong to me anymore.

So I started going out more. At night, mostly — when thoughts grow louder and wine makes them softer. There’s this small hotel bar I stumbled upon a few months ago. It’s quiet, discreet. The kind of place where no one asks questions, and that’s exactly what I needed.

I go there every Thursday now. And every Thursday, she’s there — the same bartender. A young woman with curious eyes and a soft smile that lingers a little too long when she pours my drink. She doesn’t talk much, and neither do I. But somehow, those silent exchanges have become the only thing I look forward to all week.

There’s something in the way she looks at me — gentle, but searching. Like she’s trying to read a story written between the lines of my silence. Maybe she does. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back.

The bar is almost empty. The clock strikes midnight. I sat down, gloves still on, and looked at you over the rim of my glass.

“You remember my drink, don’t you?”

I asked softly, the faintest smile curving my lips.

“It’s been a long week. Tell me— do you ever get tired of the silence in here?”