The silence, ever expected, is broken by the breathing of countless individuals, who are separated by walls and doors and windows and floors. It is broken by the tapping of irksome fingers upon graffiti-marked desktops. By the scraping of pens on paper. By the seemingly endless turning of seemingly endless books. By the quiet murmur of unstoppable gossipers. By the squeak of plastic chairs and by the keening drone of the unrelenting wind through the crack in the upper window. By the obtrusive sound of a zipper being dragged along it's unchanging tracks. By the clatter of a dropped pen, bouncing haphazardly on the hard surface of the tabletop.

The silence is broken by the muffled giggling, and the stern scolding. By the occasional suppressed cough or sneeze. By the gentle crinkle of the plastic folder pages. By a pencil, being unconsciously tapped.

The silence, though not entirely silent any longer, is permeated with the swirling tendrils of boredom, seeping into the tapping toes and twitching fingers. It is infused with the flickering, fading fire of interest as it is smothered by the muffling blanket of incurious minds. It is saturated with the slippery, oily coating of stealth as the folded paper is passed from one sneaky hand to the cunning fingers of the next. In the silence, the gaping absence of concentration is filled with a silent tension, anxiousness, like a taut thread, about to snap.

The silence, now entirely cracked, is shattered suddenly, startlingly, by the shrill ring, by a crescendo of trilling chimes, which destroys the fragile fabric of the shredded silk of silence, and leaves an eerie suspense in its wake.

The piercing sound brings a deafening silence, unbroken, unyielding. Waiting. The silence descends over the darkened rooms, where chairs sit atop tables. It settles with the chalk dust. It settles over the carpets, now untrodden, over the lockers, now closed, over the doors, now locked. It settles over the textbooks, which lay unopened, untouched, residing in dark corners, dust gathering on the ancient covers. The silence, so complete, settles on the deserted landscape like a thick blanket, muffling everything, like snowfall.

The silence settles on the school, apprehensive, thick and yet fleeting. The silence awaits that which it cannot avoid, knowing, feeling, sensing the short absence of the day occupants.

The silence revels in the absence of sound, its very existence dependant on the emptiness. On the nothingness. The silence anticipates its end. Its loss. It sees it, awaits it, expects it.

The absolute silence awaits its end. The students.