He cracked a line that made the whole room bend, the kind of laugh that shook the walls in place. But in the pause that followed at the end, a shadow crossed the corners of his face. He wore his wit like armor polished bright, a shield he raised before the world could sting. Yet every punchline trembled in the light, as if his voice was tied to some unseen string. He joked about the chaos in his chest, the way a man might whistle through the dark. And though the crowd kept laughing with the rest, I caught the moment something missed its mark. His smile slipped — a fracture, thin and brief, a truth that flickered underneath the grin. A quiet sigh escaped him like a thief, revealing storms he’d tucked away within. Then just as fast, the mask was back in place, the jester rising for another round. But I still see that look upon his face, the one he hid before he heard a sound. And now I know the cost of every joke, the weight he carried just to keep us whole. The laughter was the language that he spoke, but silence was the doorway to his soul.