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Coups de cœur Cultura
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Doug never liked mornings, but this one bit at him differently. He lay in bed, blanketed by a silence so complete it pressed on his eardrums. No birds, no wind, not even the old dog across the alley barking at passing cars. The silence was a heavy, unfamiliar thing, and even when he tried to shake it off, it clung to him like static charge.
He stretched, rolled to his side, and stared at the alarm clock: 7:03. The digital numbers glowed with an unnatural clarity. By now, he should have heard the neighbor's television set, or the distant drone of traffic on Main Street, or the sharp clatter of the mail slot. Instead, nothing.
He dressed in record time, skipping the shave and yanking on a pair of jeans that still smelled faintly of last night's Italian takeout. The kitchen was just as quiet—the refrigerator's hum was the only sign the world hadn't been power-washed into oblivion.
After three minutes of standing at the window, Doug's nerves started to itch. The sky was a mustard yellow, looking like a volcano had erupted somewhere in Indonesia. He didn't see a single person walk by, which was odd for a weekday morning in a town where everyone knew the price of milk and the color of your curtains.
