He is used to silence, has always been a man of few words.
The quiet of the cottage was deafening without her. It was cold and empty without her laughter, her humming while she tidied or boiled water for tea. All he could think about was the sough of her breath, the rustle of her skirts in the short corridors. The sound of the brush passing through her hair.
He was haunted by the sounds of prison in her absence. He cringed when he thought of them hammering her ears. The clang of doors, shouts, shrieks, metal on metal, coldness. He wondered if she would ever be warm while she was there.
The quiet he returns to is welcoming, laced with soft sighs, the beat of her heart. It almost hides the darker silences, the things that gnaw at her. Things she won't mention. Even in the stillest part of the night he hears them.