I walked in by chance — it was Tuesday, and raining, the guard flipped a book with a *shhh* of detaining. No voices were heard, but the walls all replied: the *flishh-flishh* of the carpet, the *hap!* I supplied, and a door with a *Clank!* like a thought left inside. First room: my childhood. A giggle in shell, the *Clang!‑Clang!* of swings where the rust used to dwell, the *plop!* of a bubble that burst out of reach, and a *Boom!* from a football still echoing each soft *Ha ha ha* of a summer that clings to the beach. There’s noise that survives with no ear to receive it, and sounds so familiar, we almost believe it… Here they display all the sounds long expired, but still beating. Each *crack!*, every *click!*, every *ugh!* has a name, and a meaning. *Shhhhhh*... just listen. This isn’t a museum— it’s a heart that stopped dreaming. Third room: old lovers, now stored under glass. A breath like a *hah…*, and a *fweee‑fweee* that passed from a lighter you sparked just to set things alight, the "mmm* of a whisper that melted at night, and the *slam!* of a door I still hear when I write. Room five: what we never quite managed to say. A *clack!* from a mug slammed at breakfast one day, a long-drawn-out *Ahem!* from surrendering pride, the *Ring-Ring!* of the call that we both let slide, and a *hhhfff* from a phone that just buzzed and died. There’s noise that survives with no ear to receive it, and sounds so familiar, we almost believe it… Here they display all the sounds long expired, but still beating. Each *crack!*, every *click!*, every *ugh!* has a name, and a meaning. *Shhhhhh*... just listen. This isn’t a museum— it’s a heart that stopped dreaming. Room six: the routine we replay on repeat. The *click!* of the clock, the *tap‑tap!* of cold feet, the *scrape* of a chair in a kitchen alone, and the *zzzz* of the hours that hum through the phone. Last room: it’s you. Still preserved, sealed in ice. A *Clink!* on the glass. A *knock‑knock!* (once, then twice). The *Wham!* of the silence I wear in my ears, and a soundless goodbye that still rattles my gears. There’s noise that survives with no ear to receive it, and sounds so familiar, we almost believe it… Here they display all the sounds long expired, but still searching. Each *click!*, every *pop!*, every *hiss!* has begun reemerging. *Shhhhhh*... just listen. It’s not a museum— it’s my voice, finally returning. ©Purasangre365
