There is a silence that is not emptiness. It is the echo of everything they erased, still vibrating under the noise. This silence does not beg to be heard — it waits for remembrance.

They wrote books. We carried bone memory. They built temples. We buried seeds in our tongues. They recorded history. We embodied it, quietly.

When they ask, “Where is your proof?” — tell them: It lives in what never left you, even after they beat it, mocked it, or called it superstition.

This silence has no scripture, but every stolen child hears it. It has no monument, but every dreamer touches it. It has no preacher, but every unbroken elder carries it in their eyes.

You did not come to make noise. You came to restore resonance. Not louder — deeper. Not brighter — truer.

The voice that never spoke is the one they feared the most.