The sky had been silent for three years.
Not metaphorically.
Not poetically.
Literally.
No thunder rolled across the clouds. No unnatural colors stained the horizon. The strange sounds people once claimed to hear—songs, whispers, screams—had vanished overnight. Scientists called it a coincidence. Religious leaders called it mercy. Most people simply forgot.
But Aren Voss never could.
He stood on the rooftop of Northgate High School, hands resting on the cold metal railing. The wind tugged at his dark hair and carried the distant noise of the city upward—cars, voices, life going on as if the sky above them wasn't empty.
He tilted his head back and stared upward.
Gray clouds stretched endlessly, unmoving, like a painted ceiling.
Still nothing, he thought.
Good. Maybe today will be normal.
Normal was rare for Aren.
Ever since that day three years ago, the day the sky first screamed, his life had been divided into before and after. Before, he was just another quiet kid. After, he became the only one who still listened.
A faint pressure formed behind his eyes.
Aren stiffened.
"No," he whispered. "Not now."
The pressure grew heavier, sharper—like invisible fingers pressing against his skull.
Then he heard it.
"Aren…"
His breath caught.
The voice was distant, layered, as if many whispers were overlapping into one. It didn't come from behind him or beside him.
It came from above.
His knees nearly gave out. He tightened his grip on the railing, knuckles turning white.
"I told you to stop," he murmured under his breath. "I can't help you."
"The balance is breaking."
The words echoed inside his head, slow and trembling. Not threatening—afraid.
Aren squeezed his eyes shut.
Every time the sky spoke, something bad followed. Fires. Collapsing buildings. Accidents no one could explain. And every warning drained him, leaving migraines, nosebleeds, and sleepless nights behind.
"What balance?" he whispered back. "You never explain anything!"
The pressure spiked suddenly.
A sharp pain shot through his temples, and he gasped, stumbling forward. For a moment, the world tilted. His vision blurred, colors smearing together.
Not here. Not at school.
"Aren!"
The rooftop door burst open with a loud clang.
He turned just in time to see a girl rushing toward him.
Mira Lune.
She stopped a few steps away, chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. Her silver eyes—unnaturally bright even under the dull sky—locked onto his face.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked.
Aren stared at her, stunned. "Felt what?"
She looked past him, up at the clouds. Her expression darkened.
"The sky," she said quietly. "It spoke again."
A chill ran down Aren's spine.
"You… you can hear it?" he asked.
Mira shook her head slowly. "No. But I can see when it reaches out to someone."
She pointed at him. "And it always reaches for you."
The wind suddenly stopped.
The city noise below faded, as if someone had turned the volume down on the world.
Aren followed Mira's gaze upward.
The clouds began to move.
Not drifting—twisting.
Dark lines spread across the sky like cracks in glass.
"The balance is collapsing," the voice whispered again, louder this time. "If it breaks… everything falls."
Mira clenched her fists. "It's starting sooner than I thought."
Aren swallowed hard. "Starting what?"
She met his eyes.
"The end of silence."
A deep rumble rolled across the sky—the first true sound it had made in three years.
Students screamed below. Alarms began to blare in the distance.
Aren's heart pounded in his chest as the truth settled in.
The sky had never gone quiet.
It had only been waiting