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[Pixabay](https://pixabay.com/photos/search/empty/)
The room is almost weirdly quiet. No phones buzzing, no laptops humming, no screens casting a soft glow against the walls. It feels like entering a time when attention was not divided, when ideas could stray without interruption, when chats were not cut into half-finished messages or emojis. You see the minor details: the floorboards creaking, the rustling of outside leaves, the weak aroma of ancient timber and sun-warmed paper.
Initially it's awkward, this silence that only asks your presence. Your mind then stretches gradually, toward concepts you had disregarded, inquiries you had postponed, feelings you had concealed beneath notifications. Here, without technology, the planet is fuller, sharper, alive in ways you forgot it might be. You start to listen, really listen, not just to others but to yourself. In the absence of artificial noise, the hum of life gets louder and you start to question why you ever let screens fill these calm settings. You can merely be here for the first time in a long while.