Walking the Edge Of Silence He walks the edge of things, not for thrill, but because the center holds no welcome. What was once a life now drags like loose thread— unraveling in silence, no protest, no plea.   Friends became ghosts long before they left. Family: a word too large for the absence it holds. He stopped trying to explain. They stopped trying to care.   But the dogs— two tired shadows at his feet— still follow him through wind and winter. They ask nothing. They know everything. Their breath keeps time with the broken metronome of his heart.   He tells himself he stays for them, and it’s true. He could not bear to vanish while their eyes still search the door, while their paws still trust the earth to bring him back.   To leave them— is to sentence the loyal to bewilderment and slow hunger. It would mark his soul with a wound that no grave could close. He would carry their pain through whatever came next. And he will not do that to them.   And th...