They called him The Listener.
A man who collected stories like fragile things—held them, protected them, never once let them shatter in the wrong hands. People trusted him because he never spoke more than he had to. Because he made you feel like your silence had value too.
But what they don't talk about… is what it means to be the one who listened to him.
My name is Adrian.
I was the boy who watched the man behind the myths grow quiet in a different way. Not the quiet of wisdom—but the quiet of weariness. The quiet that follows too much grief.
David wasn't always what the world called him. He wasn't always calm or patient or kind. Sometimes he was angry. Sometimes he broke things he couldn't fix. Sometimes he sat in the dark long after everyone else had gone to sleep, whispering names into the emptiness like prayers he didn't believe in anymore.
But he saved me.
Not with sermons. Not with smiles. But by seeing me when I didn't even know I was there.
And now he's gone. Just… gone. The kind of gone that leaves no forwarding address.
The kind of gone that makes you wonder if you imagined the whole thing.
This is my story.
Not because I want to rewrite his—but because I need to write mine.
He taught me how to carry stories.
Now I have to learn how to let them go.
---
There's a silence that comes after someone like David leaves your life.
It isn't loud. It doesn't slam doors or scream goodbyes.
It just… settles. Like dust on a memory you're too scared to clean.
I stil remember the exact day he left.
I just remember waking up one morning, and something felt missing.
The kettle hadn't boiled. The books were untouched. The window he always opened—closed.
There was no note. No "Adrian, I need time."
Just his absence.
And the echo of every moment we didn't say enough.
I just drove to Joe's grave and there he was, dead, the second attempt at suicide had been successful.
You see, David never promised forever.
He never said he'd stay.
He just taught me how to survive a world full of people who speak too much and say too little.
He gave me tools. Lessons. Wounds.
And now he was gone—and I was left with all of it.
His voice still rang in my head, though. Not his advice. Not his "wise" sayings.
No. It was something quieter. More human.
I remember once, long before he died, I asked him,
"Who listens to the Listener?"
He looked at me, and for the first time, he didn't have an answer.
That's when I knew.
David wasn't healing anymore.
He was hiding.
---
Now it's my turn.
This story isn't just about him.
It's about what happened after he stopped speaking.
When the myths fade, and you're left with the truth.
When you stop surviving on borrowed wisdom and start trying to find your own.
This is me.
Adrian.
And this time, I'm the one telling the story.
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