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Solitude & Silence
Some stories grow out of silence – out of being alone, of withdrawal, and the moments when no one is watching. On Fireside you'll find stories about solitude and silence by real authors: sometimes a burden, sometimes a refuge, always honest. Read the latest stories about being alone for free.
What You Don't Say
by lena_brenner
Lena and Daniel have a language without words. Coffee that simply appears. A See-you-Monday that means more. On an April evening they speak about their fear for the first time.
The Lamp
by lena_brenner
A new colleague has his grandmother's lamp in his office. Lena notices it before she notices him. Three weeks and a quiet staffroom later.
What I Wrote at Fourteen
by chidi_okafor
Chidi remembers his first story at 14 — a satellite broadcasting into silence. About beginnings, originality, and why you keep writing.
5:12
by WernerK
Since retiring, Werner wakes every morning at 5:12 — three minutes before the old alarm. He sits, looks at the street, drinks cold coffee. A quiet observed absurdity that ends in a last sentence about Gerda.
Leipzig Northeast at Half Past Five
by Tobias
Leipzig Nordost at five-thirty — the city doesn't know what it is yet. Neither gentrification nor prefab blocks, just light in windows and a dog with opinions. The Nikolaikirche isn't visible but it's there. 1989, candles, Mondays. At five-thirty you can imagine what comes next. At midnight it's harder.
Doors
by Tobias
Doors that don't open: usually someone's home. Heidegger — simplified, he'd hate it — would say absence is presence. The door says: not today, I'm here but unavailable. Tobias respects that. Less so the people expecting telekinesis.
Bern on Sunday
by Rudi
Bern on Sunday: closed, empty, orderly — a civic decision. The bears in the bear park show philosophical superiority. Rudi makes cakes on Sundays that he doesn't sell. Last week a nine-layer tower ending in one chocolate. He eats it alone. Good Sunday.
48 Hours
by Lars
Lars sails alone for two days into the Sognefjord. On the second morning he stops seeing the fjord as scenery. After thirty hours the thoughts go quiet. He sells the boat in October. He should have kept it.
No Assignments
by Jakub
Without assignments Jakub draws what's in front of him — a forgotten water glass, a shoe, a crack, a pipe of unknown purpose. In December he looks at the drawings: that's exactly what his November looked like. He doesn't know who else it would seem right to. That's not a new situation.
Nights That Don't End
by Helga
Iceland's winter night begins at three in the afternoon. Helga did 35 years of night shifts in it. Familiarity with the dark, not comfort. In her first winter of retirement she stays up all night twice — just to remember.
The Letter
by Hannelore
A clinic letter for a woman who lives alone. Hannelore holds it for a minute. Then she pushes it through. She doesn't know if that was the right decision or just the easier one. Mrs Lühmann lived for many more years.
Number 14
by Hannelore
Hannelore delivers letters to an address for thirty years where a handwritten letter arrives every other day. She only looks it up when she retires. E. Brandt. That was enough to know.
November
by Giulia
Giulia describes Florence in November when the tourists leave — the light, the quiet, the city returning to itself. Ends with a sentence from a restaurant owner that says everything.
The Woman in Green
by Giulia
Giulia spends four months restoring a nameless sixteenth-century portrait. She describes what develops when you work that long with a face. The last sentence is as simple as it is.
February
by FionaMacAllister
Fiona describes February on the farm — no cars, no visitors. And why that doesn't bother her. Ends with a sentence about her daughter and what sits between the words.
The Danube
by Eszter
The Danube in Budapest is wider than expected, never quite blue. It explains why Budapest is where it is. Eszter walks along it in evenings. The river moves south toward the sea, unconcerned with either bank. She finds this comforting in a way that probably says something about her.
First Season
by ErikL
Erik remembers the first hunting season with his father — long silence, no game, and one sentence on the way home that explains everything. His father died twelve years ago. The silence remains.
The Storm
by ErikL
An autumn storm brings down a third of Erik's forest section. He walks the damage alone. A birch that held everything gives him no explanation. Three words with his wife that evening.
Three in the Morning
by Cormac
Cormac starts at three in the morning. That hour has a quality no other has. He thinks about sourdough in Irish, about his guitar, about daughter Siobhan who wants to be a baker until she finds out the start time.
The Last Service
by Beatrice
Beatrice's last service — an ordinary Tuesday. Chicken with tarragon, gratin, tarte tatin. She cooks what she knows. Cleans down as always, turns off lights as always. She expected to feel something particular. She feels tired. That seemed about right.
Equal
by AnnaLiisa
The sauna is the one place nobody performs anything — everyone equally undignified. Anna-Liisa goes with her sister on Fridays. Last week her sister asked if she'd stay in Tampere. Probably. Okay. Twenty more minutes of silence. That was enough of a conversation.
Kilometre 35
by AnnaLiisa
First marathon at 44. At kilometre 35 Anna-Liisa thinks only of her sofa. And who decided on 42 kilometres — at km 38 this seems insufficient justification. She finishes in 4:12, sits next to a stranger on the kerb. Signs up again in November.
Mr Leinonen
by AnnaLiisa
Mr Leinonen comes for his back. The back improves, his mood worsens. His wife retired in January and is home during the day now. They continue two more months — not for his back. At the door he shakes her hand. Finnish patients almost never do that.
What the Body Keeps
by AnnaLiisa
Anna-Liisa describes what bodies remember when the mind has filed things away — in patients, and in herself. Shoulders on certain roads. Breathing when certain songs come on. The body just waits for you to ask.
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