The Silence Protocol
After his neighbors vanish, a man receives a device that doesn’t record—only responds to sound. In the silence that follows, he learns who’s really listening.
Three neighbors on my street vanished in one week. No signs of struggle. Their homes left untouched—food still on the table, lights still on. Just… gone.
I mentioned it in passing during a work call, joking about a “weird neighborhood curse.” The next morning, my phone stopped working. My emails bounced back. My smart assistant wouldn’t respond to my voice anymore.
That night, my smart speaker lit up on its own and whispered: “Silence is safer.”
I unplugged everything. Went offline. But the next day, two men in suits visited, flashing vague government credentials. They didn’t ask about the neighbors. They asked what I knew.
I told them nothing. They smiled too long. One of them placed a small black box on my kitchen counter and said, “This is for your protection.” Then they left.
The box had no buttons. No cords. But since that day, I haven’t heard a single bird outside. No wind. No engine sounds. No footsteps. Just silence.
And every time I speak above a whisper, the box lights up red.
I mentioned it in passing during a work call, joking about a “weird neighborhood curse.” The next morning, my phone stopped working. My emails bounced back. My smart assistant wouldn’t respond to my voice anymore.
That night, my smart speaker lit up on its own and whispered: “Silence is safer.”
I unplugged everything. Went offline. But the next day, two men in suits visited, flashing vague government credentials. They didn’t ask about the neighbors. They asked what I knew.
I told them nothing. They smiled too long. One of them placed a small black box on my kitchen counter and said, “This is for your protection.” Then they left.
The box had no buttons. No cords. But since that day, I haven’t heard a single bird outside. No wind. No engine sounds. No footsteps. Just silence.
And every time I speak above a whisper, the box lights up red.
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