City of theSilent
ForLiana,
"Ina worldfullofnoise,you arethe voiceI always listenfor.
This storywas born from silence, but it carries your name in everyword."
—Alireza Habibian
"Silence,beforeitsaysanything, shapes thelistener. Thefirst step is always takenindarkness— nottofindthe path,but to seewhathas been hidden within you."
Chapter1 :ToSee What WasHidden
Navidwalkedthrough thecitywhere silenceruled notonly by absencebut by law. Thesky waspale, washed outasif even colorhad growntired of speaking.The buildingswere uniform,liketeeth in along-closed jaw, andevery footstep he took echoed with aghost of asound once allowed.
TheDampener, askin-coloreddevicebehindhis ear, buzzed softly.Itmonitored decibels,analyzedpatterns, andreported
anomalies. It wasthe Authority'sleash,a permanentfixture in everycitizen’s life. Navidrememberedwhenitwas voluntary. He also remembered laughter.
He passedbya bakery window wheresynthetic breadcooled soundlesslybehindglass. Thebaker,a womanwithfaded eyes andtight lips,noddedwithout greeting.Itwas illegalto sayhello.Illegal to sayanything, unless throughthe sanctioned silent signboardsystem.
As Navidcontinuedhis walk,a faintpressure rose in his chest—memories threateningtosurface.A laugh, once.A giggle.A name.
“Liana.”
He didn’t sayit. Didn’t dare.But it rang in hisheadsoclearly that he looked behind him. No onewas there.
Theparkhad been turned into astone square,benches removed, fountains sealed.Joy wasunpredictable.Joy was disruptive.Joy hadbecomesuspect.
He paused beneatha narrow tree,one of thefew survivors of theRegulationPurge.Its branches quivered with theeffort of rememberingwind. Navidrememberedhow Lianausedto chasethe birdsthere—whenbirds stillflew.
Hishands trembled.Heplacedthemintohis coat pocketsto hide theshake.Hedidn’twantthe sensorstopickitup. Shakingcould be interpretedasthe preludetospeech. A dangeroussymptom.
Then,the sound returned.
Soft.Sosoftitfeltlikeair.
“Baba...”
Thevoice didn't come from outside. It echoed inside hisskull.
He gasped,stumbled, andreached forthe tree to steady himself. No warningtonefromthe Dampener.Nodecibel spike. Butthe sound hadbeenreal. Familiar.Impossible.
Lianahad died eightyears agointhe flood. That’s what the Authoritysaid. Thecollapseunder thecentral archivehad takendozens. No survivors. Only namesengravedonsilence walls,mourned in whispers.
Butthe voicehad been hers.
He left thesquare quickly, heartpounding in silent rhythm. At home,the wallsgreeted himwithneutral lightingand aroma-neutralizers.Hesat in hissmall chair, staringatthe wall fora long time.Then, he reachedbehindhis ear.
Aclick.The Dampener shut off.
Forthe firsttimeinyears,Navid heardthe room breathe.
He closed hiseyes. Beneaththe silence, ahum.Below the hum,a murmur.
Somethingdeepinthe city still remembered sound.
Andnow,sodid he.
Thenextmorning,Navid walked adifferent route. He avoidedthe towers with blinking redlenses, avoidedthe open squaresand government drones.Hesteppedintothe alleybehindthe oldcinema—oneofthe fewplacesleft withoutfullsurveillance coverage.
He reachedintohis pocket andpulledout afoldedsheet of paper. Nota screen.Not achip. Arealpiece of paper, hidden in hiscoatliningfor years. On it wasa drawing—childlikebut unmistakablyLiana’s.Two stickfigures beneatha tree, holdinghands.The tree looked just like theone in the square.
As he stared at thepaper,another sound rose in hisskull.
Alaugh.Short.Bright. Defiant.
Hisheart thundered. Notfromfear—butfromclarity.
He wasn’t insane.Hewasn’talone.Heknewwhathehad to do.
Therewereothers—therehad to be.Peoplewho still remembered.Peoplewho still heard.
He wouldfindthem. He wouldfindher.
Navidsat in hisapartment,the smallglowofthe kitchenlight castinglong, quietshadows againstthe wall.Hehadn’t turned theDampenerbackon. Apartofhim knew this was reckless—dangerous,even—butthe silencehe’dknown for yearsnow felt heavierthanthe risk.
He rana finger across thefoldlines of Liana’sdrawing again. Everylinehad been pressedwithpurpose—childlike,but not careless. Twostick figures. Onetall. Onesmall.A tree beside them.And beneaththem, threeletters scratchedinsoft pencil:
“B +L”
Hisbreathcaught. Baba andLiana.She always insisted they were ateam, even when hermotherhad told herotherwise. Even when theworld hadbegun to forbid love in full sentences.
Aknock.Sharp.Three times. Navidfroze.
No oneknocked anymore. No onevisited withoutapproval. He tucked thepaper into abookspine andslowlyrose. The peephole revealed nothing. No figure.Noshadow. No drone.
Anotherknock.Softerthistime. Lower.
He opened thedoor.Nothing. Only asmall,foldedpaper on theground.
He bent,pickeditup, closed thedoorwithout thinking.His handstrembledasheopenedthe note.
"You arenot theonlyone whohears.Cometothe edge of Sector B-14,03:30.Lookfor thechalk mark."
No name.Nosymbols.Justthose fewwords in neat block writing.
At exactly03:28, Navidstepped throughthe outerborderof Sector B-14,his coat pulledtight,breathfogging.Itwas an abandonedloading zone once used forprinted goods. Now, just crackedconcrete, rusted rails, andsurveillance shadows.
Buthere, thecorners still haddust. Andchalk couldstill stick to stone.
He found it—a crescent moon drawnonthe edge of a crumblingpillar. Next to it:another sound.
Soft humming. Barely perceptible. Butundeniably human.
He turned thecorner. Achild stoodthere.
No olderthanten.Hairmessy,eyestoo wide forthe dark. Shehelda smallcubeglowing with static.Anancient radio.
Shelookedathim andwhispered—not in hisheadthistime, but aloud:
“You’relate.”
Navid’sthroatlocked. Hisvoice hadn’t passedhis lips in so long that it almost hurttoformit. Buthedid.
“Who areyou?”
Thegirltilted herhead. “TheycallmeWhisper.But Idon’t like that name.”
He crouched,heart pounding.“Do youknowLiana?”
Thegirlblinked.“Everyone in theEchoNetwork knowsher name.”
Navid’schest tightened. Foryears,hehad livedinthe certaintythathewas aloneinhis remembering—that Liana’s voicewas nothingbut residueofgrief.And now, in frontof him, stooda childwho spokeofa network. Aname. Echo Network.
He whispered, barely audible: “Where is she?”
Thegirl, Whisper, didn’t answer rightaway. Sheturnedoff thecube, placingitinsidea clothpouch,and gestured for himtofollow. “Wedon’t speakmorethanweneedtoout here.Followthe chalk.”
He did.
Symbolsmarkedthe path—drawn hastily butpurposefully: stars, arrows,crescents.Theyweavedbetween collapsed loadingcratesand metalbeams untiltheyreached awall that looked no differentthanthe others.
Shepressedher palm againsta rusted panel.
Thewallclicked.Shifted. Andopened.
Inside wasdarkness—absolute.Whisper pulled athinstrip of fabric from hercoatand handed it to Navid.
“Cover your Dampener.Evenoff, it listens.”
He hesitated. Sheraisedaneyebrow.“Youmadeitthisfar. Mightaswellcommit.”
He noddedand wrappedthe fabric tightly. Then followed her down.
Thetunnelwas damp,narrow, andlined with oldwiringthat no longer hummed.Theydescendedfor minutesinsilence until aglowemerged ahead—pale,warm, andreal.
Thespace they enteredopenedsuddenly. Acavernbeneath thecity. Stringsofdim lightshungoverhead. Rugs andfloor cushions scatteredthe ground. On onewall: amural,handpainted, unfinishedfacehalf-formed butfamiliar. Liana.
Navid’sbreathcaughtagain.She wasolder here.The childhe remembered grownintoa teen.Eyessharper.Mouth softer.
Whispersmiled. “She stayed with us.Beforeshe disappeared again.”
“Disappeared?” Hisvoice cracked.
“She knew more than sheshould’ve.About theArchives. Abouthow theAuthority fakedthe Collapse.She hadtorun. Sheleftusfragments.Messages. Clues.”
Navidstepped toward themural,handtrembling.His fingers stoppedjustbeforetouchingthe paint.
Whisperstood beside him. “You weren’timagining hervoice. She'stryingtoreach you. Across thesilence.”
He turned.“Whyme?”
Whisper'sexpression changed. Astrange mixofsadness and certainty. “Because shecalledyou anchor.You were her grounding point. Theonlyone shebelievedcould wake the others.”
They sataround asilentfirethatcrackledwithout heat. Others joined—halfa dozenfigures,somechildren, some gray-haired, allwithquiet eyes.Noone spoke. Butevery glance wasfilled with somethinglargerthanwords.
Aboy handed Navida book—bound in crackedleather.
Inside were names.
Andmessages. Scrawled in pencil,inpaint,incode.
Amap of memory.
At dawn,whenNavid emergedfromthe hidden tunnel,the city felt different. Thesilence wasstill there. Butitwas no longer impenetrable.
He looked at therooftopsand imagined voices hovering in theair likeold songstryingtoberemembered.
He whispered: “I will find you, Liana.”
Andfor thefirst time,the Dampener behind hisear didn’t blink. It wasasifeventhe machinehad beguntolisten.
Chapter2 :The Murmur Beneath
Thecitylookedthe same in daylight,but to Navid, everything hadshifted.
Theskyline no longer toweredoverhim—itloomed.The smooth,monolithicbuildings that once seemed passive now felt like watchers.Eventhe airtasteddifferent,heavy with memory andmovement. Or maybeitwas just himwho had changed.
He walked with more purpose now, each footstep aquiet rebellion. Thememoryofthe murallingeredinhis mind Liana’sface, half-painted,hoveringlikea ghostabove the resistance.The mapinthe leather-boundbooksat wrapped in clothbeneath hiscoat. Hisfingers itched to unfold it again. Butheresisted.
He couldn’t risk eyes on him. Notnow.
TheDampenorwas stilloff. Covered. Hidden.He’dtold himselfhe’donlykeepitthatway fora fewhours,but the silence—therealsilence—was like awound he hadtopress.
At everycorner, he imagined sensorstwitching.
At everyintersection, he expected to be pulledaside, questioned, scanned.
Butnoone came.
Andthatterrified himmore.
