In the quiet, sprawling landscape of our family farm, silence has become a heavy, living thing. My younger brother, Leo, used to be the kind of child who filled every room with noise. He was wild, restless, and perpetually in motion, a blur of energy that neither our parents nor the boundaries of the farm could quite contain. He was the kid who climbed the highest branches of the oak trees and shouted his triumphs to the wind. But that version of Leo vanished last autumn, replaced by a ghost of a boy who refuses to speak above a low, trembling whisper. Continue reading…
