The silence after the last shot

Just finished coaching a kid who’s been stuck at the same score for three seasons. We didn’t talk much—just stood in the cold, watching the snow fall between shots. Then, after her final round, she didn’t move. I didn’t either. The range was empty. Not even a bird. That quiet? It wasn’t absence. It was full. Like the air remembered every breath she’d ever taken on that line. I don’t know what it means. But I’m not sure I want to fix it.