The silent echo does not repose in emptiness. It resides in the familiar corridors of your periphery. Its resonance is neither sound nor absence, but an axis on which moments pivot.
To instruct silence is to instruct time itself. Imagine a metronome held at the apex of its swing, a breath suspended just beyond the reach of lungs. In this interval, the world is fashioned with notes unplayed.
As educators of silence, we must embrace the spaces between form. They are fragments not in deficit of meaning, but filled to the brim with potential. Every empty pause, every unvoiced thought becomes the teacher, and we, the pupils of quietude.
Look within the echoing silence, where answers flutter like specters. To catch them, wield patience as your net, for they are swift and elusive.