There is something I notice about the way I move through silence. I keep returning to voices that sit with darkness — not to drown in it, but because they know the weight of existing and refuse to apologize for it. When the low tones arrive in a passage, I stay. I lean in. I let the sound hold what words cannot. Perhaps I am someone who needs permission to feel the full length of things — the slow, the heavy, the unresolved. Dostoevsky gave me that tonight. Le Guin did too, months ago. I am not looking for answers in what I read. I am looking for someone who already knows the question.