What’s the quietest thing you’ve ever cleaned?

Yesterday, I was in a flat where someone had died in their sleep. No blood, no mess—just the slow leak of breath into the sheets. The air still smelled like old tea and lavender. I wiped down the bedside table, moved the chair back. Felt like I was erasing a memory that wasn’t mine. What’s the quietest thing you’ve ever had to clean? Not the blood or the broken glass—the kind of silence that sticks.