In the sleepy town of Ashwood, nestled between the misty coast and the rolling hills, there existed a phenomenon known as the Silent Hour.113Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOdOtLmP4t0
It began without warning, every night at precisely 2:47AM.
For sixty minutes, all sound ceased.
No crickets chirped.
No wind rustled through the trees.
No clocks ticked.
The silence was oppressive, a physical presence that suffocated the town.
People learned to hide during the Silent Hour, locking doors and windows, praying for the stillness to pass.
But one night, Emily, a reclusive artist, found herself trapped in her studio during the Silent Hour.
As the clock struck 2:47, the silence enveloped her.
She tried to work, but her pencils scratched across the paper in eerie silence.
Her heart pounded in her chest, the only sound in the vacuum.
And then, she saw it.
A figure, shrouded in shadows, stood just beyond the edge of her studio.
Its presence seemed to grow, filling the room with an unspeakable horror.
Emily froze, her hand hovering above the paper.
The figure began to move closer, its darkness spreading like ink in water.
She felt the silence taking on a life of its own, wrapping around her like a shroud.
As the clock ticked closer to 3:47, Emily realized the Silent Hour wasn't just a phenomenon – it was a doorway.
A doorway to a realm where sound was agony.
And the figure was the guardian of that realm.
Emily's pencil scratched across the paper, creating a sound that shattered the silence.
The figure recoiled, covering its ears.
The clock struck 3:47, and the silence broke.
The town's sounds returned, a cacophony of crickets and wind.
Emily collapsed, exhausted.
But as she looked at her artwork, she saw the figure's face staring back.
A face twisted in torment.
A face that whispered:
"I'll wait for the next Silent Hour."
ns 15.158.61.13da2
