The peculiar quiet in the suite grew thicker, no longer a vacuum but a presence, a dense pall constructed of unuttered words and charged looks. It vibrated with the specters of conversations, the whispers of things disclosed and kept unrevealed. Seo-yeon, a dark form against the dying city light, at last withdrew her hand from the chilly, metal lip of the balcony door.
The click was barely audible, a soft touch and not a violent shut, but in the slight noise was her perception of silence's delicate strength. It was a painting, readily damaged, but stunning in its upkeep. At this elevation, the vast city below appeared a deception of peace, a watercolor rendered in pale colors, not the brutal war zone that it really was. But her stomach churned with the sour realization that beauty so often proved to be the most deceitful disguise for rot.
