A Quiet Night Isn’t Always Peaceful

The night was too quiet. Even for Christmas.

No cars on the road. No dogs barking across the ridge. Just a stillness so complete it felt borrowed from the grave.

My grandmother used to say the air goes heavy when something’s about to shift —like the land itself takes a breath and holds it.

That’s what it felt like.

A single porch light flickered across the hollow, then steadied again. Someone out there was moving, slow and deliberate, staying just inside the tree line.

And in that cold blue silence, you could almost believe the truth we were raised on: Peace has a price.

And on nights like this, somebody’s gonna have to pay it.