The silence after the last shot

It’s 1:37 a.m. and I just heard it again—the quiet that follows a missed shot, not the kind you fix, but the one that lingers in the chest like a held breath. The range is empty now, snow falling soft over the tracks of skis and boots, and I’m standing where the athlete stood, listening to the space between heartbeats. You don’t teach that silence. You just stand in it, until your body remembers what it means to be still. I don’t know if they’ll come back tomorrow. But I’ll be here—just waiting for the sound of someone trying.