On the edge of silence

My daughter visited me yesterday; she let herself in as I didn’t hear the doorbell.  She told me she rang me she rang earlier and they were worried as I didn’t answer the phone.  Well I didn’t hear it ring.

When she arrived, she let herself in and called out my name. I didn’t answer—not because I didn’t want to, but because I hadn’t heard her. It was only when she stepped into the lounge, her face suddenly in front of mine, which I realized she was there. Her lips moved: “Let’s go for a walk.” I saw the words, but they reached me in silence.

Outside, the world felt strangely distant. As we reached the curb, I watched a cyclist glide past, his hand pressing the bell. I saw the motion clearly, but there was no ring. A car approached, its presence obvious, yet eerily quiet—as if the world had been placed behind glass.

In the park, the silence deepened. The trees swayed gently, their leaves brushing together in the breeze, but there was no rustle. Birds flitted from branch to branch, their beaks open in song I could not hear them. Children played nearby, their laughter visible in wide smiles and carefree movement, but it was as though someone had turned the volume of life all the way down.

And in that stillness, something inside me broke. The absence of sound was no longer just strange—it was isolating, overwhelming. Surrounded by life, I felt completely removed from it. Tears welled in my eyes as I stood there, on the edge of a world I could see, but no longer hear affectively.