There’s a silence that comes after a book is born. Not the kind that brings peace, but the kind that rattles inside your ribs—echoing through the empty corners once filled by characters, conflict, and craft. As writers, we spend months—sometimes years—growing a story. We nurture it, worry over it, rewrite its flaws, and chase perfection like it owes us something. The book takes up residence in our minds and our bones. It whispers when we’re…