(by Vaelion of Ocris)
There is no real ending to a silence — only the moment when it stops needing you to hold it.
Every book I’ve written began with noise.
Thoughts arguing, memories demanding shape.
But somewhere along the way, the words learned their own restraint.
They began to fall quiet — not from exhaustion, but from understanding.
Silence, I’ve come to believe, is not the absence of sound.
It is language that no longer requires translation.
It speaks in weight, in breath, in the way a room remembers what was once said within it.
The Witness Cycle was never about telling stories.
It was about learning when to stop.
When to let truth exist without decoration,
and when to trust that the reader will listen even after the page has gone still.
Finishing a silence is like releasing a bird you’ve nursed from a storm —
you don’t watch to see where it lands.
You only hope it remembers the sky.
— Vaelion of Ocris
There is no real ending to a silence — only the moment when it stops needing you to hold it.
Every book I’ve written began with noise.
Thoughts arguing, memories demanding shape.
But somewhere along the way, the words learned their own restraint.
They began to fall quiet — not from exhaustion, but from understanding.
Silence, I’ve come to believe, is not the absence of sound.
It is language that no longer requires translation.
It speaks in weight, in breath, in the way a room remembers what was once said within it.
The Witness Cycle was never about telling stories.
It was about learning when to stop.
When to let truth exist without decoration,
and when to trust that the reader will listen even after the page has gone still.
Finishing a silence is like releasing a bird you’ve nursed from a storm —
you don’t watch to see where it lands.
You only hope it remembers the sky.
— Vaelion of Ocris