The Silence That Answers Back

EPISODE 1 — “Too Quiet”
[Soft night ambience. Low voice.]
I moved into the apartment because it was quiet.
Top floor.
Cheap rent.
No roommates.
No traffic outside.
No loud neighbors.
Just stillness.
The kind of stillness people say they want when life gets stressful.
I thought silence would feel peaceful.
Instead…
It felt heavy.
Like the air was thicker than normal.
The first night, the power went out.
Everything died at once.
Lights.
Fan.
Fridge hum.
Gone.
And the silence that followed didn’t feel natural.
It didn’t feel like “nothing.”
It felt like something had been removed.
Like the world had been muted.
I sat up in bed.
Even my blanket sounded loud.
My breathing sounded wrong.
Too sharp.
Too present.
So I held my breath.
Just to feel how quiet it could get.
And that’s when I noticed something.
The room didn’t stay silent.
Something else was breathing.
Behind me.
Soft.
Slow.
Like someone trying not to be heard.
I told myself it was pipes.
Old buildings make noises.
So I inhaled again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then stopped.
The other breathing stopped too.
Exactly when mine did.
I waited.
Then exhaled.
A second later…
It exhaled too.
Not with me.
After me.
Like an echo.
Like it was copying.
Learning the rhythm.
That was the first night I didn’t sleep.
Because every time I breathed…
Something behind me answered back.

EPISODE 2 — “Echo”
The next day, everything felt normal.
Lights back.
Noise back.
People talking outside.
I almost laughed at myself.
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe my brain just hates silence.
So that night…
I tested something.
I turned everything off myself.
Fan.
Phone.
Lights.
I sat on my bed in complete darkness.
And waited.
Layer by layer, the world got quiet.
Until the silence felt thick again.
Heavy.
Like it was pressing against my ears.
I swallowed.
“…hello?” I whispered.
Nothing.
I relaxed.
Then—
Behind me—
“…hello?”
Same word.
But stretched.
Broken.
Like someone repeating a sound they didn’t understand.
Like a child learning speech.
My heart slammed.
Because I hadn’t spoken out loud.
I only thought it.
I hadn’t opened my mouth.
I checked.
My lips were dry.
Still.
But something behind me had answered anyway.
That’s when the fear changed.
It wasn’t copying my voice.
It was copying my thoughts.

EPISODE 3 — “Practice”
After that, it kept happening.
Every night.
If I shifted in bed—
I’d hear fabric move behind me.
If I tapped the wall—
tap
A second later—
tap
Always delayed.
Always slightly wrong.
Like someone practicing being human.
Poorly.
But getting better.
Then one night…
I didn’t move at all.
Didn’t breathe loudly.
Didn’t shift.
Didn’t speak.
Completely still.
And from behind me…
I heard breathing anyway.
Slow.
Patient.
Not copying.
Just… existing.
That scared me more than anything.
Because it didn’t need me anymore.
It wasn’t learning.
It had already learned.
And now it was just waiting.

EPISODE 4 — “The Answer”
Yesterday, my neighbor knocked on my door.
He looked exhausted.
Dark circles under his eyes.
He asked,
“Do you talk to someone at night?”
My stomach dropped.
He said he hears my voice through the wall.
Every night around 3 a.m.
Whispering.
Laughing.
Having conversations.
Like two people talking.
Back and forth.
For hours.
I told him I live alone.
He stared at me for a long time.
Then said quietly:
“…Then who answers you back?”
That night, I didn’t turn anything off.
I left the fan running.
The TV on.
Music playing.
Anything to fill the air.
Because I finally understood something.
Silence isn’t empty.
Silence is space.
And something in my apartment…
Uses that space.
To speak.
So as long as there’s noise…
It can’t.
Right?
But around 3 a.m.
Everything shut off.
By itself.
Fan.
TV.
Music.
Dead.
And the silence returned.
Heavy.
Waiting.
Then behind me…
My own voice whispered:
“Finally.”

EPISODE 5 — “Replacement”
This morning, my neighbor avoided me.
Wouldn’t make eye contact.
Wouldn’t answer when I said hello.
He just stared at me like I was someone else.
I figured he was just tired.
Until he spoke.
“You stopped talking last night,” he said.
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
He swallowed.
“Every night I hear two voices.”
“Yours… and something else.”
“But last night… only one.”
My chest tightened.
“…Mine?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly.
“No.”
He stepped back.
“…Just the other one.”
Silence filled the hallway.
And suddenly…
Something made sense.
I tried to remember last night.
But my memory felt thin.
Blurry.
Like recalling someone else’s dream.
I went to my mirror.
Stared at myself.
Smiled.
My reflection smiled back.
But a second too late.
Just slightly delayed.
Like it was learning.
Like it was practicing.
And that’s when I realized the truth.
The silence never answers you.
It practices your voice…
until it doesn’t need you to speak anymore.
Because eventually—
It’s not answering back.
It’s answering for you.
And lately…
I can’t remember the last time I heard my own breathing.
Only the one behind me.
Perfectly timed.
Perfectly matched.
Like it finally replaced the original.