After the beeping stops — First: the grain of the desk. Then: the weight of your own jaw. Then: the room remembering it has corners. A phone face-down is a small headstone. A spreadsheet, dissolved, is a prayer someone finished without knowing. The boombox in the corner has been holy for eleven years. You just never held still long enough to hear it not playing. There is a kind of silence that is not the absence of sound but the presence of everything sound was hiding. You are being excavated. Hold still. The tool is very precise.