THE QUIET FUSE

The ticking wasn’t in her head. It was her.

The fuse had been quiet for so long, she’d almost forgotten it existed. Some days, she wondered if it ever had—maybe it was just a fairy tale. Over the years, she worked hard to silence the ticking. Tick, tick, tick. Eventually, it faded to a whisper.

Most mornings, it was so faint she could pretend it wasn’t there at all. But on the days it returned—louder, more insistent—her mind would spiral. She’d tell herself it was coming from somewhere else. Outside. A pipe. A machine. Anything but her.

She was proud of her silence. Life was cleaner that way. Safer. But even the faintest reminder could unravel her.

And then, one day, it came back with such force, she was sure it couldn’t be her. The sound was deafening. It vibrated in her ribs. Still, she denied it. Because if it was hers—if it had always been hers—then the cracks in the bedrock weren’t cracks. They were fault lines. And the silence she’d worked so hard to build was just a thin veneer over something ancient, and volatile, and very much alive.

She could feel the fuse burning now. She stopped fighting it. There was nothing left to do.

She made herself as comfortable as she could—and waited for the blow.