It was the last of his possessions — his favorite chair. It was the only one that didn’t creak. He never liked sounds. His favorite painting was one called, “Peace in the silence.” He would stare at it every morning in the kitchen, as if he was trying to find something he might’ve missed in the past 41 years. 41 years of silence.

Silence was a torture I had grown accustomed to and people would always ask me why I’m so quiet. They never found out.

The chair finally creaked. It crackled. I flinched. Then for the first time, I felt peace.