The
Void
Joshua Jay Semel
The pale oblivion snow had not stopped in forty-three days, and Elian had long ceased counting.
In the silence, interrupted only by the low hum of failing machinery and the occasional whisper of a memory not his own, Elian waited for answers or perhaps for the moment when the transmissions would begin again, carrying her voice through the static like a ghost threading a needle through the seams of his skull.
I wondered , where youâve gone. Where ⌠youâve gone.
Emilia , my nights have become so quiet since your departure
Existentially dreadful , scalding rumination cuts both physically and metaphorically
Elian spoke to his spectrograph in a broken tone of voice
The winter isnât that different from all the others here in Copenhagen Denmark
The snow is ⌠relentless , indifferent to those who seek light
Your light ⌠I hope you know itâs deeply missed Emilia
Elian saw her again in that dreamâthe same way she always cameâbarefoot, standing at the ledge of a ruined church that clung to the edge of nothing. Below, a black ocean moved like a living thing, breathing slow and cruel. The sky above her was sick with purple stormlight, and behind her, the bell tower leaked rust like blood from an old wound. She didnât look back. Just stood there in that pale dress, still as bone, as if gravity didnât dare touch her. He tried to call her nameâtried to runâbut his voice went nowhere, swallowed by the air, and his feet were rooted in something heavy and godless. All he could do was watch. She tilted her head, so gentle, so far away, and stepped forward. No sound followed. No scream. Just that familiar, unbearable silenceâthe same one that carved through him when it really happened. When she really fell. When he didnât get there. Not in time. Not ever.
Elian sprung back awake sweltering in cold apathetic sweat. 6 AM the clock read in a bold and grand red color . The Vor Frelsers Kirke church bell rang, bleeding lust onto Elians soul. He had heard them in his dreams before , subtly yet Endlessly , as if the cosmos responded in sorrow. The wind breezed into his room courtesy of the window he had left open in his bedroom. Elian believed even the air left some kind of message .
Elian stood beneath the pale grey sky. The snow biting away at his hands with cold indifference. I had forgotten my gloves , or perhaps I made a haste decision. The snow drifted into the gravestone where they had buried Emilia. Her grave stood next to a crooked yew tree. its bare branches clawing at the air like a mourner frozen in time, the granite was simple any but extraordinary which was unfortunately the best Elian could come up with . Her name etched delicately in the coldness of Copenhagen snow , the weather drenched of solemn stillness , the kind that haunted the psyche for years. The wind blew past Elian ⌠but Elian remained standing on par with the silence . Elian reached into his soul and managed to withdraw a purple flower from the pocket in his black coat . He gently placed the flower on her grave before murmuring â Emilia , if we had escaped from this wretched hell , weâd likely laugh in merriment at all its havoc. Our laughter would be memorable and evocative . It would resonate off any evilness and likely never return to our lives . But my laughter alone canât fill the void ⌠pretending has become useless ⌠pretending has become empty without you.â
Søren ! Yelled father in haste as if time had spiraled forward . Father had dropped his coffee and while Søren did his best to clean the mess it seemed the fault was always his. Ah , my younger brother didnât have to do much to reach fathers boiling point . His mere existence was a blessing to some and an imprecation to others, such torment shouldnât be tolerated in any realm of nature . Yet his words and mere presence did a number on father , who am I kidding anyway , his drunken state had worsend , so had my idea and desire for
hope . It came back to him, in the way all ghosts doâ uninvited but familiar. Then came the footsteps. Heavy. Certain. Elianâs father, though Søren had never called him thatânot really. A man of stature, but not of soul. After the funeral, heâd become a shell, and Søren⌠the shellâs target. A bottle clinked. A breath was drawn. Then came the handâfirst across the face, then the ribs, then wherever pain was easiest to reach. Not with fury, but with ritual. Youâre not even mine murmured father to Søren in that meanacing tone we had all been used to hearing . Elias was in the other room with me , the lights which were poorly maintenanced flicked uncontrollably as if the air sensed something evil . It was then that Søren decided not to cry , he had rendered that decision useless and Instead packed his bags . That was the day he had left , he hadnât mentioned where or why , but my thoughts painful , like a knife skimming over skin. Goodbye , brother . Read the note he left on my bedroom door .
Elian stood there long after the note had yellowed in his memory, long after Sørenâs absence became less of a question and more of a law of nature, like the snow or the church bells or the silence that seemed to press itself into every corner of Copenhagen. Yet tonight, in the fragile dawn of another endless winter morning, the ghost of his brotherâs footsteps seemed to return, pacing faintly at the threshold of his mind. He could almost hear Sørenâs voice muted, fractured, like a transmission breaking through static telling him that departure was not the same as escape. That even in leaving, one carries the grave within. Elianâs chest tightened, his breath fogging the air like a specter of a man who was never fully alive to begin with. The city yawned around him, indifferent, and Elian realized he could not tell if he was standing at Emiliaâs grave, or if he had already joined her beneath it.
Pick it up from the ground ! Yelled out my co worker Matthew obnoxiously . I obliged to his order as promptly as I could , it seemed the best option at hand . Could it be that the snow had hardened? Piercing and painful in its purest form ? Matthew seemed so mundane in his movements , his lips cracked from the snow , his eyes in constant movement as if he had downed a liter of coffee, his movements mechanical as I had always remembered them ⌠or had it been different ? I had dedicated my time as a snow shoveler to numb the utter despair that had penetrated my soul, yet it seems my escape was short lived Emilia . The breeze doesnât feel delightful but rather apathetic . Ellian?! Shouted Matthew then muttering his words as though he felt momentarily ashamed of his blaring . Are you alright ? My response was reticent , as if I had feared a creators ears would hear my numbness , I am quite well , the work today seems a handful , besides , my stomach is turning with hunger ⌠do you have the time ? 5:00 PM, responded Matthew , I must admit , my body aches for a coffee ? What of a drink Elian ? Perhaps our moods arenât doomed for affliction , how about it then? I had been compelled by the idea of having distractions , because the reality is ⌠Iâd much rather have your voice ⌠Emilia .
The bell above the coffee shop door jingled faintly as Elian stepped in, shaking off the snow that clung to his coat like frozen despair. The dim amber light cast long shadows across the wooden tables, flickering softly against the walls like reluctant memories. Steam spiraled from mugs of dark coffee, curling into the stale air, carrying the faint sweetness of roasted beansâcomfort that seemed almost cruel in contrast to the emptiness pressing against his chest.
Matthew was already seated at a corner table, fingers drumming absently against the ceramic cup. His eyes lifted, brief and casual, acknowledging Elianâs presence before returning to the half-finished crossword in front of him. The indifference was deliberate or perhaps instinctive either way, it struck Elian with the sharpness of a frozen blade. He lowered himself into the chair opposite Matthew, the cold from outside still lingering in his bones. The cup he lifted was heavy, grounding him in the fragile reality of the moment, though the warmth seeped too slowly to thaw the grief lodged deep within him.
âI⌠I donât know how to keep going,â Elian admitted, his voice low, tremulous. âSince Emilia⌠everything feels hollow. The snow, the silence⌠even breathing
seems like a lie.â
Matthew shrugged, eyes still on the crossword. âYeah. Lifeâs like that sometimes,â he said, voice flat, almost bored. âStuff happens. You deal, or you donât. Doesnât really matter either way.â
Elian blinked, as though Matthewâs words were not just indifferent but violently alien, intruding on his grief with a banal cruelty. âDoesnât matter?â His voice cracked. âDoesnât matter that someone I loved⌠someone I canât reach anymore⌠is gone?â
Matthew lifted a hand lazily, gesturing toward the steam rising from his cup. âItâs gone. You can sit here and mope, or you can drink your coffee. The snow isnât going to melt because you miss her, Elian. Nothingâs going to care. You know that.â
The words were simple, but in their simplicity, they were a cold mirror. They reflected Elianâs isolation, the futility of seeking solace from another soul in a world indifferent to mourning. His hands trembled slightly over the cup, gripping it as if it could anchor him to life itself.
âI⌠I canât just stop thinking about her,â Elian whispered. âI canât pretend she didnât exist. Every corner of this city⌠every shadow⌠sheâs there. And yet you⌠you speak as if itâs nothing. As if my pain is meaningless.â
Matthew finally looked up, meeting Elianâs eyes for a heartbeat before returning to the crossword with a small shrug. âMaybe it is,â he said. âMaybe you just have to carry it yourself. Thatâs all anyone ever does, really. The rest of us⌠we move on. Youâll have to, too.â
Elian felt the void widen beneath him, the warmth of the coffee unable to reach the hollow spaces inside his chest. The dim light of the shop seemed to grow colder, the shadows longer, the air heavier. Around him, the world continued in casual, uncaring rhythmâthe hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of cups, the low murmur of conversations that didnât matter, could not matter. He wanted to scream. To shake Matthew until he understood that grief was not a choice, not a passing annoyance. But all he could do was sit, drinking slowly, tasting the bitter echo of a life that would never be the same. And in the silence that followed, Elian realized that the coldest thing wasnât the snow outside, nor the winter in Copenhagen, but the indifference of the living the simple, crushing truth that some hearts were untouched by anotherâs suffering, and some voices would never carry across the void
Elian shut the door behind him with a weary push, the muffled groan of the hinges greeting him like a tired relative. The apartment was small, but not so small that its emptiness couldnât stretch wide when night fell. The rain fell with difference behind him, the single lamp in the corner flickered weakly, its light dim and jaundiced, casting uneven shadows along the peeling wallpaper. His bookshelf slouched against the far wallâhalf-filled with philosophy texts, old journals, and a few novels he hadnât been able to finish since Emiliaâs absence. The spines stared at him like mute witnesses. He opened the refrigerator. A hollow gust of stale air brushed his face. Only a half-empty carton of milk, two cracked eggs, and a bottle of cheap vodka sat inside, their presence more accusatory than nourishing. He closed the door without touching any of it, letting the hum of the motor echo in the silence. On his desk, a sheet of rough paper lay waiting beside a quill and a bottle of ink. He had bought the quill months ago in a fit of nostalgia, as if the slowness of writing by hand could anchor him to something older, truer. Tonight, the page remained stubbornly blank, the void reflected in its untouched whiteness.
Finally, he dipped the quill and began. The scratching sound filled the apartment like a heartbeat.
Søren
I donât know where you are , or if you even care to know Iâm writing. But every night I hear your footsteps as though you never left. Maybe itâs my mind playing tricks , maybe it is the void mocking me, but I wonder , did you ever find peace in leaving ? Or did the silence follow you as it followed me? Fathers shadows still cling to the wall. Sometimes I think you escaped , but sometimes I think escape is just another kind of prison. Emilia is gone Søren. I wonder if you would have understood her absence better than I do. Or if you would be sitting
on at a desk writing to a ghost ⌠Perhaps we are all ghosts , invisible beings that become haunting yet riveting to others . I just wish you were here , Søren.
From Elian
Elian woke late the next morning, his body heavy as though the night had pressed all its weight into his bones. The apartment was still dim, the lamp long dead, but a dull light bled through the curtainsâmorning, reluctant and grey. He moved slowly, as if every step were borrowed.
In the kitchen, the kettle hissed. The ritual of coffee was the one thing that hadnât betrayed him. He poured it black into a chipped porcelain cup, the steam rising like a fragile ghost. He took a sip, bitter and scalding, yet grounding in a way nothing else was. For a fleeting second, he felt human again. By the time he slipped into his coat and pulled the door shut behind him, the city was already muffled under another fresh layer of snow. Elian stepped into it quietly, his breath fogging in the morning air. He thought of Emilia, of Søren, of the letter on his desk each name like a weight in his chest. It was only when he reached to lock the door that he saw it. A scrap of paper tucked against the frame, the ink scrawled hurriedly:
Elian,
Meet me at the bar tonight. 8 PM.
âMatthew
The handwriting was uneven, impatient. Elian turned the note over in his gloved hand, the paper damp at the edges from the morning frost. A part of him wanted to crumple it, to toss it into the drifting snow and keep walking, to remain cocooned in his solitude. But another part the smaller, quieter part knew the silence was beginning to crush him.
He slipped the note into his coat pocket and walked on toward Ărstedsparken, the snow biting at his shoes. The thought of the park offered a strange kind of relief; its stillness was not unlike his own, and in the frozen pond and skeletal trees he found a mirror for his hollowed-out self.
Yet in the back of his mind, the words lingered: Meet me at the bar. 8 PM. It was not the invitation that unsettled him, but the possibility that he would say yes.
The bar smelled of smoke, oak, and something faintly metallic like old coins left too long in the rain. The light was low, a flickering amber that leaned heavy against the cracked bottles lined on the shelves. Elian pushed through the door, brushing snow from his coat, and spotted Matthew already seated at the counter, nursing a glass half-filled with something sharp.
Matthew raised his chin in a wordless greeting, his eyes shadowed but alert.
Elian sat beside him, the leather stool groaning beneath his weight. The bartender poured without asking, sliding a dark drink toward him. Elian took it, the cold glass biting against his palm.
For a while, they drank in silence, the room alive with murmurs and clinks. Then Matthew spoke, voice low, as if afraid the walls might overhear.
âYou ever think,â he said, turning the rim of his glass with his fingers, âthat sufferingâs the only thing that actually binds us? Not joy, not love, not even blood. Just pain. Strip everything else away, and thatâs whatâs left.â
Elian studied the dark surface of his drink. His reflection swam there, broken by the faint tremor of his hand. âSuffering,â he echoed, his voice brittle. âIt feels less like a bond and more like a prison. I donât feel connected through it I feel⌠severed. Like every wound cuts me further from the living.â
Matthew gave a humorless laugh. âMaybe thatâs the trick. You think youâre the only one bleeding, but everyoneâs bleeding. Some just hide it better.â
Elianâs eyes narrowed. âSo what then? We just keep bleeding together until thereâs nothing left of us?â
Matthew took a slow drink, then set the glass down with finality. âThatâs the closest thing to truth youâll ever get. The world doesnât care if youâre crushed. The snow falls the same, the clocks keep turning, the bar stays open. Suffering doesnât end it just changes hands.â
Elian swallowed hard, a hollow ache stirring in his chest. âBut if itâs endless⌠whatâs the point of bearing it at all?â
Matthew looked at him then, really looked, with an expression caught between
pity and cold amusement. âBecause you donât have a choice.â
The words hung heavy between them, heavier than the smoke, heavier than the winter pressing against the bar windows. Elian gripped his glass tighter, as though it were the only thing anchoring him from collapsing into the void Matthew had named aloud.
The night air hit them as they pushed through the barâs heavy door, crisp and laced with the scent of snow. The streetlamps glowed faintly through the drifting flakes, casting pale halos onto the cobblestones. Elian pulled his coat tighter, savoring the sudden quiet after the muffled chaos of the bar.
Beside him, Matthew slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. He tapped one free, held it between his lips, and lit it with the slow deliberation of someone who had done it a thousand times before. The flame flared briefly against his features, carving shadows into the hollows of his face.
Elian watched the first curl of smoke bleed into the night. âWhy do you smoke?â he asked softly.
Matthew exhaled, the smoke twisting into the cold like something alive. He didnât answer right away. He just stared ahead, boots crunching against the snow. Finally, he spoke.
âBecause it makes the silence tolerable,â Matthew said. âPeople think itâs about habit, or addiction, or trying to look tough. Itâs not. Itâs about filling the empty spaces. You inhale, you exhale, you watch the smoke disappear like a ritual. Reminds you that everythingâs fleeting, including yourself.â
Elian studied him, the way his words seemed detached yet heavy, as though they were spoken through a wall of glass. âBut why⌠why so indifferent to it all? Human suffering, loss, death you speak as though none of it matters.â
Matthew gave a small, bitter laugh, smoke seeping from his mouth like a ghost. âBecause I learned early that caring too much is a curse. My old man used to beat the hell out of my mother. I tried to stop him once just onceâand he made sure I regretted it. I was twelve. That was the day I realized pain doesnât stop just because you care. The world doesnât reward compassion; it punishes it. So I stopped caring. Stopped pretending. I decided Iâd rather be the cold one than the one broken by warmth.â
The words hung between them, crystallizing in the frigid air. Elian felt a shiver crawl up his spine not from the wind, but from the revelation. âSo you smoke,â Elian murmured, âto keep the silence at bay⌠and to remind yourself not to care.â
Matthew flicked ash into the snow, his eyes distant. âExactly. Itâs easier to choke on smoke than on hope.â
They walked on, the city around them muted under its blanket of snow, two men bound not by friendship but by the fragile thread of shared silence.
The alleys narrowed as Elian walked, the night folding itself into darker seams of Copenhagen where the snow turned grey with soot. Matthew had vanished at some corner, swallowed by the city, leaving Elian to follow a half-remembered rumor of a place where the world dissolved in smoke. His steps dragged, as though pulled by something older than choice.
The door was almost invisible unmarked, weathered, just a slab of wood with iron hinges. A faint red glow bled from beneath it. Elian hesitated only long enough to wonder if Emilia would have turned back. Then he pushed it open.
Warmth hit him first not the honest kind, but heavy, stifling warmth, soaked in incense and the acrid-sweet smell of burning opium. The room breathed dim amber light, lanterns swaying slightly on hooks, their glow pooling across low couches and scattered cushions. The air was thick, curling with smoke that moved like slow water, blurring the edges of the six figures who sat or sprawled within it. They turned toward him without moving their bodies just their eyes, glazed but lucid in some deeper, darker way. The closest, a man with hair like iron filings and a thin scar down his cheek, gestured lazily toward the empty space among them.
âSit,â he said. âNo names matter here. Only smoke.â
But names emerged anyway, like a liturgy whispered between draws of the long pipes.
There was Agnes, her hands adorned with tarnished silver rings, eyes hollowed by
years of unbroken staring.
Rasmus, thin as a candle wick, his laugh dry and without mirth.
Helene, who held the pipe like a lover, her lips cracked but smiling faintly. Otto, slouched against the wall, muttering phrases in German no one tried to understand.
Freja, younger than the rest, with hair tangled like roots and a voice soft as falling ash.
And the scarred man Viktor, who had first spoken, who seemed less a host than a gatekeeper.
Elian sat among them, the cushions swallowing his weight. A pipe was pressed into his hand without ceremony, the bowl glowing faintly with ember. He lifted it, hesitated, then inhaled. The smoke filled him like liquid iron, thick and sweet, dragging his body into heaviness.
Agnes spoke first, her voice soft but certain.
âLife doesnât matter. Not really. Itâs a play with no audience, a book with no ending.â
Rasmus chuckled, the sound hollow. âIt matters less than the ash falling from your pipe.â
Helene leaned back, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. âI tried to make it matter once. Love, faith, work illusions, all of it. The smoke is kinder. At least it lies honestly.â
Otto muttered in German, his words fractured, but Elian caught the sense: Alles ist Staub everything is dust.
Frejaâs voice drifted in, fragile. âI used to dream of meaning. Now I dream only of forgetting. Forgetting feels closer to truth.â
Viktorâs gaze found Elianâs through the haze. His voice was firm, steady, almost cruel. âIf you came here for answers, youâll leave emptier than you arrived. Thatâs the gift of the smoke it proves you were empty all along.â
Elian inhaled again, deeper this time. The edges of the room began to warp, their faces bending into shadows, voices stretching into echoes. The warmth pressed heavier on his chest, and somewhere in the shifting haze he thought he saw Emilia barefoot again, at the ruined churchâs ledge, only now her face blurred like smoke itself.
His grip slackened. The pipe slipped from his hand, clattering softly onto the cushions.
Agnes whispered, as though closing a prayer: âLife doesnât matter, Elian. Only silence. And silence welcomes us all.â The smoke claimed him. His head tilted back, vision collapsing into the blur of lanterns above, until even their glow dissolved into black. Elian passed out.
Elianâs eyes flickered open. The world was still smoke dense, languid, the lanterns above swaying as if the air itself breathed in slow resignation. His chest burned, not from grief this time, but from the heavy residue of the opium still clinging to his lungs. The den around him was quiet, the figures sunk deep into their own stupors, more statues than people. For a moment, he wondered if he had died with them if this was death, the silence of bodies pretending to be whole.
But when he pressed his palms to the floor, the cushions gave way beneath him. His hands trembled as he pushed himself upright, the pipesâ scent clinging to his skin like a curse. He stumbled to the door, his legs unsteady, dragging him through the dim haze until the red glow bled into the harsh white of night outside.
The cold hit him at once. The snow fell harder now, fat flakes descending in merciless rhythm, coating the streets of Copenhagen in another layer of indifference. Elian staggered into it, his breath cutting sharp against his ribs, his boots crunching until he collapsed just beyond the threshold of the den.
He lay back against the ground, the snow embracing him with its frozen weight. It clung to his lashes, seeped through his coat, numbed the tremor in his bones. He didnât fight it. For once, he didnât resist. The sky above was colorless, pale, a void without stars. He thought of Emilia her barefoot figure, the ruined church, the silence that followed her fall. He thought of Søren his note, his absence, the echo of footsteps that would never return. He thought of Matthew
indifferent, scarred, filling silence with smoke. And then he thought of nothing.
Because there was no answer. No cosmic justice. No hidden order. Only this snow falling, endlessly, meaninglessly. The earth would decay. So would he. So would the memory of everything he loved. And yet, as the flakes kissed his face, cold and fleeting, Elian felt something crack open inside him. A strange, quiet acceptance.
The absurd was not cruel. It simply was. A laugh small, broken, almost accidental escaped him, carried into the night. It wasnât joy. It wasnât despair. It was something in between, something freer. He would suffer, he would love, he would lose, and in the end he would vanish. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The snow gathered over his chest, his arms, his face, blanketing him like the silence he had chased for so long. He closed his eyes, and for the first time since Emiliaâs fall, he did not feel crushed by it. He felt part of it.
The void was not an end, but a mirror. And Elian, at last, let it hold him.