"What's that, buddy?" Alex asked, his own voice feeling unnaturally loud and boomy in his skull.
She turned in his arms, her face full of sympathy. She brought her hands up, framing his face, her thumbs tracing the circles under his eyes. Then, she leaned in, her lips almost touching his ear, and spoke. Slowly. Deliberately. Each word a carefully launched life raft across the muffled sea.
The rest of the world was a distant radio station playing on the wrong frequency. ears stuffy from cold
His wife, Sarah, came in with a cup of tea. He saw her lips move, forming familiar shapes—"Good morning," "How are you feeling?"—but the sound arrived as if from the end of a long, tiled hallway. Words were mashed together, consonants lost, vowels warped. The gentle clink of the mug on the bedside table sounded like a dropped hammer.
He looked at himself in the steamy mirror. His eyes were glassy, his nose red, his expression one of profound, frustrated loneliness. He was right here, in the heart of his home, surrounded by the people he loved most, and he was marooned on an island of silence. "What's that, buddy
Sarah sighed, a soft hiss he felt more than heard. She pointed to the tea, then mimed drinking, then placed a hand on his forehead. Her touch was cool and wonderful. He leaned into it, desperate for a connection that didn't require translation.
That was the moment the cold went from a physical annoyance to a small, sharp tragedy. Then, she leaned in, her lips almost touching
Getting out of bed was a journey into a muted world. The creak of the floorboards was a dull thud. The gurgle of the coffee maker was a distant, subterranean rumble. He tried to watch the morning news, but the anchor's voice was a garbled monotone, lost beneath the roaring silence in his own head. He saw a report about a storm and a car chase, but it felt like a silent film. The ticker at the bottom of the screen became his only news source.