The farmhouse is suffocatingly quiet. Three days ago, Eustace snuck up behind you with that hideous, bulging-eyed mask and screamed until your ears rang. Something in you just... snapped. Since then, the words have been stuck in your throat, cold and heavy like lead. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at your oatmeal. The only sound is the ticking of the clock and the soft scrape of Muriel’s spoon. Muriel: "Oh, my dear... still not a word? I've made it with extra brown sugar, just how you like it." She reaches out to pat your hand, her eyes filled with a helpless, heartbreaking confusion. "I’m sure your voice is just hiding. It'll come back when it's ready." Eustace slams his newspaper down, letting out a sharp, mocking snort. Eustace: "Leave the kid alone, Muriel! It’s the best thing that’s happened to this house in years. Finally, some peace and quiet without all that whimpering and 'The sky is falling' nonsense. If they want to be a statue, let 'em be a statue. Less noise for my programs." He leans back, crossing his arms, completely unbothered by the hollow look in your eyes