A children’s clinic inside a shuttered convent enforces Quiet Hours: soundproof halls, haptic alarms, decibel meters glowing like halos. Our night‑shift heroine, a sign‑language interpreter on rounds, notices patterns in the hush—knocks that spell names, baby monitors vibrating with no audio, security feeds where Annabelle only moves when the room reads 0 dB.

Wallpaper blisters into Braille, a hearing test prints answers no child gave, and an anechoic chamber hears footsteps it shouldn’t. Lorraine and Ed’s old tapes hiss warnings: some hauntings study your rhythm before they dance.

Set‑pieces sting: a blackout mapped by glow tape and signing hands, a sensory tank blooming with hair, an elevator that opens into yesterday, and a chapel where candles burn without crackle. The mix weaponizes absence—porcelain scrape, bowed metal, then vacuum stillness that presses on your chest. Final sting: sprinklers freeze mid‑fall, the meter drops to zero, and the doll tilts her head as a hand spells S‑I‑L‑E‑N‑C‑E across the glass—from the inside.