Every night, I walk to the same empty parking lot behind the old grocery store, just to listen to the silence. It’s not real silence, of course — there’s the clicking of streetlights, the faint hum of power lines, the whisper of something breathing behind the dumpsters. I record it all on a little cassette player I keep in a shoebox.

People tell me it’s strange, but they don’t understand — the silence changes. Sometimes, if you rewind just right, you can hear breathing that isn’t yours. I’ve cataloged 117 different silences, each with its own tone and memory. I labeled one “The night the neighbor’s cat stopped visiting.” Another is just called “Her leaving.”

I listen to them before bed like prayers. They say loneliness makes people weird, but I think I just listen better than most. Anyway, I’m off tonight to get a new one. Maybe in the alley. Maybe near your street. I’ve never recorded the sound of someone realizing they should go home early.