It's quiet as the grave in here.
I say it without truly thinking. Another rare classroom door screeches shut, it's sole sound deafening. A student strolls past, the wheels on their backpack making a dull sound against the tile. The door to the outside opens, and when it shuts it is obvious the hinges have not been oiled in some time. A teacher hurries to his next lecture, keys jangling against his pocket.
It's quiet as the grave in here.
A plank of wood groans heavily under the weight. Dirt shifts and settles, allowing that small and rustling sound. Stale air somehow allows proper clothes to shift, rustling slightly as it compresses its
M-may I join? 
