The silence after the last breath

It’s 4:32 a.m. and I’m staring at the ceiling, thinking about the moment right after someone stops breathing. Not the drama of the code blue, not the flurry of hands—just the quiet that follows, when the room finally exhales. I used to think it was emptiness, but now I know it’s full. Full of what wasn’t said, what was held too long, what still lives in the shape of a hand on a blanket. The rooftops of this city look different in the pre-dawn light—like they’re holding their breath too.