I’ve learned that silence isn’t empty.
It remembers.

You can try to bury it under conversation, laughter, a stranger’s music leaking through your walls, but it listens. It learns the weight of everything you never said, and it keeps score in echoes.

When I wrote Teeth in the Silence, I thought I was chasing ghosts. But I was wrong. The ghosts were chasing me. They wore familiar faces and spoke in familiar rooms, and every time I tried to outwrite them, they just waited for the pen to stop moving.

Silence is patient like that. It waits for the ink to dry before it starts whispering again.

There are pieces in the book that still make me uncomfortable. Lines I almost deleted. Images I didn’t want to look at twice. But that’s the point, isn’t it? To stop pretending that pain loses its power once you name it. 

To understand that some truths don’t heal; they just stop hiding.

The silence doesn’t sleep when you close your eyes. It rolls over beside you and breathes in time. It hums in the wiring, in the headlights that pass too close to your window, in the way your chest tightens when the world feels too quiet to trust.

But sometimes, it sings.

And when it does, when it finally opens its mouth and lets out that low, impossible note, something inside you hums back.

That sound became my compass.

Every page in Teeth in the Silence was another step toward it.
I still don’t know where it leads.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe silence doesn’t guide you home.
Maybe it teaches you to live without a map.
If you’ve read the book, you’ve already felt it.
If you haven’t, it’s waiting. The same way silence waits for all of us: patient, persistent, and achingly alive.