The Weight of Quiet

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in

The Weight of Quiet

Story Written & Told By
Mae Hollister

Discovered and Brought to Life by
Clara Jennings, Ivy Caldwell,
Lena Marshall, & Evelyn Brooks

Visuals and Imagery Created by
Clara Jennings, Ivy Caldwell,
Lena Marshall, Evelyn Brooks,
& Scott Bryant

With care and reverence, their story is shared by Scott Bryant
at the request of Clara Jennings, Ivy Caldwell,
Lena Marshall, & Evelyn Brooks

A Note from Clara Jennings, Ivy Caldwell, Lena Marshall, and Evelyn Brooks:

We are not traditional historians, nor do we claim to be. We are seekers—of lost voices, forgotten narratives, and the truths buried in time. Over the years, we’ve tracked down stories that should never be forgotten, uncovering them from the dark corners of dusty archives, hidden journals, and the silent corners of history.

And that’s how we found Mae Hollister.

Her story, tucked away in an old file, had all but disappeared. It lay buried between pages, forgotten by all except for a few. The words she wrote—powerful, raw, and honest—had been lost to time, ignored and overlooked. But when we found it, we knew immediately it was a story that needed to be told.

Mae’s voice, though muted by history, spoke with strength. It told of her life, her struggles, and the decisions made under the weight of fear and a nation’s demands. It was a story too important to stay hidden.

To bring Mae’s story to life, we asked Scott Bryant to assist us with the visuals and imagery. His skill in capturing the essence of time and place, in breathing life into the moments that Mae wrote about, was unparalleled. He worked tirelessly with us to create the atmosphere Mae’s words needed, bringing her world into sharp focus.

And though Scott requested not to be credited, we could not let that happen. His contributions were too vital, too intertwined with Mae’s story. We have chosen to honor his contribution, and we hope you, too, see the importance of our collective artistic vision in bringing Mae’s story to life.

This is Mae Hollister’s story, brought to light by the hard work of all those who believe stories like hers matter. May you listen to her words, and hear what she couldn’t say for all these years.

Clara Jennings – Story Curator & Writer
Ivy Caldwell – Researcher & Editor
Lena Marshall – Historical Archivist & Chronicler of Lost Voices
Evelyn Brooks – Visual Director & Storyteller of Forgotten Narratives

LUMICORE — ARCHIVAL MODE (BLACK & WHITE) IMAGE 1: OPENING ESTABLISHMENT “Administrative Quiet” FORMAT Horizontal | Black & White | Normal Lens (≈40mm) | Early-1950s Institutional Documentary Photography CORE INTENT — LOCK FIRST (NON-NEGOTIABLE) This image exists to document a space without emotional interpretation. The camera behaves as an institutional recorder, not a storyteller. No mood. No symbolism. No narrative emphasis. This is a room that exists whether or not anyone notices it. SCENE & SETTING Interior of a small administrative office in New England, early 1950s. The room is plain, functional, and unremarkable: A simple wooden desk with clean, squared edges A period-accurate mechanical typewriter resting idle on the desk One sheet of paper loaded into the typewriter, with a slight, natural misalignment A small stack of additional papers nearby, mostly orderly, not styled A straight-back wooden chair positioned close to the desk but subtly disturbed — either pulled back slightly or turned a few degrees off-axis A metal filing cabinet with flat drawer fronts and label holders Painted plaster walls with subtle wear, age, and uneven texture A single window on one side of the room No decorations. No personal effects. No identifiers. The room appears recently occupied but currently empty. The space erases people — but not instantly. CAMERA BEHAVIOR Eye-level perspective Neutral distance — neither wide nor intimate Slight asymmetry permitted No dramatic angles Framing feels incidental, like a municipal or institutional record photograph The camera does not search. It does not compose. It simply records what is there. LIGHTING Flat, even institutional lighting. Overcast daylight entering through the window, softened and subdued Interior illumination is evenly distributed No directional light No sculpting shadows No highlight emphasis The window light is present but restrained — its clarity reduced so it does not feel gentle or comforting. The room feels evenly lit rather than naturally “pretty.” Lighting exists because the building has lights. BLACK & WHITE TREATMENT Mid-gray dominant tonal range Low to moderate contrast Slightly flattened contrast curve No crushed blacks No blown whites Natural, fine film grain only Mild softness acceptable This must resemble archival documentation, not art photography. TEMPORAL AUTHENTICITY — HARD LOCK Accurate early-1950s furniture proportions and materials Period-correct typewriter design and paper stock Correct window framing and wall finishes No modern objects No contemporary styling cues Everything belongs quietly to its time. STRICT EXCLUSIONS No people No faces No portraits No cinematic lighting No noir contrast No symbolism No nostalgia No beauty bias FINAL MENTAL CHECK If the image feels beautiful → flatten contrast. If it feels dramatic → neutralize framing. If it feels emotional → remove intention. The correct feeling is: This was never meant to be noticed.

The world felt quieter than usual here in New England.
I had once loved silence—barefoot summers in Vermont, the hum of bees, the slow folding of daylight. Silence had meant safety then, a refuge I could breathe in.
But now, the quiet pressed closer. It wasn’t peace anymore. It was listening. A hush that didn’t comfort—it watched. The kind that made you lower your voice, even when you were alone.

I, Mae Hollister, sat at my desk in the small administrative office, the rhythmic hum of the typewriter the only sound filling the air. The office was nearly empty—everyone off for lunch or running errands. I’d spent the morning organizing old files, like I always did, stacking the papers into neat piles, each one more disorganized than the last. It was the kind of work I could lose myself in—the kind that didn’t ask questions or demand much of anyone. There was a comfort in it, a comfort in the routine. At least it was predictable. And it paid decently.

But today, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The kind of feeling that crawls up your spine and makes you check the locks on your door, even if you’re alone.

The Letter

LUMICORE — ARCHIVAL MODE (BLACK & WHITE) IMAGE 2: THE LETTER “Unmarked Envelope” FORMAT Horizontal | Black & White | Normal Lens (≈40–50mm) | Early-1950s Institutional Object Documentation CORE INTENT — HARD LOCK This image exists to document an object as it would appear in an institutional record. The camera does not interpret, dramatize, or explain the object. The envelope is treated as evidence, not symbolism. The image exists before meaning arrives. SCENE & SETTING (CONTINUITY REQUIRED) Interior of the same administrative office established in Image 1. A plain wooden or early laminate desk surface fills most of the frame. On the desk lies a single envelope: Thick, period-accurate paper stock Handwritten name present but softly defocused, suggested rather than readable No return address visible Envelope unopened Positioned slightly off-center, not aligned for emphasis Nearby objects appear incidentally, not staged: A small stack of files or folders A blotter pad A pen or pencil resting naturally The edge of a period-correct typewriter or filing cabinet entering the frame Nothing appears arranged for effect. Nothing is highlighted as important. CAMERA BEHAVIOR Desk-level or slightly above desk-level perspective Neutral framing Moderate depth of field — no dramatic shallow focus Envelope slightly softer than surrounding objects, but not blurred No centering for symbolism The camera records what is present and stops. LIGHTING Flat, even institutional interior lighting. Uniform illumination across the desk surface No spotlighting No shadow symbolism No contrast sculpting Light exists only because the room is lit. BLACK & WHITE TREATMENT Neutral grayscale Mid-tone dominant Low to moderate contrast Paper texture visible Handwriting visible but not legible in detail Natural, fine grain only Slight softness acceptable The envelope must feel ordinary, not ominous. TEMPORAL AUTHENTICITY — NON-NEGOTIABLE Early-1950s desk materials and stationery Period-appropriate handwriting style Correct ink density and paper grain No modern textures, objects, or typography Everything belongs quietly to its time. STRICT EXCLUSIONS No hands No people No faces No visible letter contents No dramatic shadows No symbolic staging No cinematic emphasis FINAL MENTAL CHECK If the envelope feels threatening → neutralize it. If it feels symbolic → flatten it. If it feels important → reduce emphasis. The correct reaction is: This looks like something that could have sat here every day.

That’s when I saw it—a letter.

Thick. Folded. Waiting.

No return address. The handwriting slanted, almost trembling. Even the stamp sat crooked, as if afraid to be seen.
My name was written on the front. Not just “Mae Hollister” but my full name, middle initial included.
I hadn’t seen that kind of envelope since the fall of 1950.

Since the picnic. Since the book.

I remembered it suddenly, vividly. A book passed from hand to hand, quickly, too quietly. We were foolish then. Or maybe just fearless. But someone must have remembered.

The air in the room seemed to shift.

Whoever had sent this knew exactly who I was.

A cold weight settled in my stomach. I had worked in this office for years, sorting documents, filing away reports. Some of them mundane, some of them tied to quiet whispers of suspicion. I had always kept my head down, done my job, stayed out of trouble.

But was that enough? Had I ignored something—someone—who’d decided I wasn’t neutral after all? Everyone knew what names could do to a life now.

The whole country was on edge now. No one felt safe—not really.

My stomach turned, the same way it did when I saw someone walking a little too close, or heard someone talking just a little too loud in hushed tones. You’d think I’d be used to it by now—the way the world has become this giant web of suspicion, but it never got easier. It only got heavier.

I opened it slowly, my fingers not quite trembling but not as steady as I’d like. The names were what caught my eye first—names of people I knew.

Names of people I worked with, lived near. Ordinary people, just trying to make it through a day like anyone else.

I stared at the words, trying to make sense of them. My stomach twisted. A list of names, marked for scrutiny. The kind of scrutiny I had tried to avoid for so long. Was this a trap—or the moment I’d already been pulled in?

I leaned back in my chair, feeling the walls closing in. It was as though the air had thickened. Was I being paranoid? Or had my own past actions—those long-forgotten, innocent associations—put me on someone’s radar? Had my old letters to friends been enough to tie me to a cause I never believed in? A list like this… it couldn’t be a mistake.

The gnawing fear inside me surged. It was too intentional, too specific. There was no turning back now. The question was no longer if it was real—it was, and I knew it. The only thing left was whether I would act.

The tension stayed tight in my chest, but the real fear was a different kind of weight—one that had been building for months. I had brushed it off before, but now, with this letter in front of me, I wondered if I had ignored too many signs. The quiet glances from my coworkers, the way people avoided certain topics after hours, the cold silence when someone spoke of government oversight. Had I already been in the middle of something bigger than I realized?

And yet, it felt like there was something about this letter that wasn’t right. Something about the way it arrived. Too easy. Too… calculated.

What’s the real game here?

I placed the letter back on the desk, my hands pressing it flat against the wood, as though the weight of it could somehow make the decision clearer. My loyalty to the country I grew up in—what was left of it—was something I’d held on to tightly. But this? This felt different.

Anne & Mary

What good was loyalty when the country you loved asked you to betray the people who made you love it?

I stood up, the letter still burning in my thoughts. As I moved papers mindlessly, I remembered a Sunday afternoon, years ago.

“Don’t let anyone see that book,” Mary had whispered once at a picnic, half-laughing, half-serious. “Just some old scribbles, but you never know these days.”

Back then, I had laughed too. But I didn’t laugh now.

My thoughts returned to the names. Mary, with her shy smile and restless eyes. Anne, who joked about everything but never politics. What if they had been more careful than me? What if they were innocent?

The letter lay flat on my desk like a trap I’d already triggered.

Mary, who always wore a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

Anne, who always knew just what to say to make you laugh, but never when the conversation got too serious.

Ordinary people—just like me.

But what if the list was real? What if these people truly were enemies of the state, in ways I couldn’t understand? What would that make me—someone who hesitated, unsure where her loyalties lay?

What does it mean to be loyal, when the government asks you to betray your own people?

The question echoed in my head. If I gave them what they wanted, I knew I would never be free again.

I couldn’t trust the system—how could I, when it demanded that I tear apart the very fabric of the community I had come to know?

But what was the alternative? To stand by and do nothing? To let people who might be a threat go free? My chest tightened, my breath catching in the back of my throat. Was I willing to gamble with the lives of people who might be dangerous? How could I even know? How could I trust my own judgment anymore?

That Night

I glanced at the phone. It sat there on the table, ordinary. But tonight, it felt like a portal to a world I didn’t understand. A call, a decision, an action that could change everything. One phone call, and the weight of this whole situation would be lifted, but at what cost?

And then, there was the other side of it—the list, the fear, the knowledge that if I didn’t act now, I might be putting my own future in jeopardy—and possibly a blacklisting by McCarthy or the HUAC. I could already see the headlines, the whispers behind closed doors:

Mae Hollister, un-American sympathizer.

I could hear their voices, the accusations echoing in my mind like the thunder before a storm, drowning out everything else.

How easy it would be to turn the names in, to ease the burden from my shoulders, and let someone else decide their fate.

But could I live with it? Could I stand by knowing I might help destroy lives I barely understood?

I told myself I had chosen survival. But I couldn’t escape the thought that it might not have been the right thing.

The Decision

The phone sat there for what felt like an eternity, daring me to pick it up. Every part of me wanted to ignore it, wanted to bury my head in the sand and pretend none of this was happening. But that would be just another way of avoiding the inevitable.

I had made my decision.

My hand moved before my conscience could stop it.
The receiver was cold, heavier than I remembered.
I dialed—one number, then another—each click echoing like a verdict.
The ringing filled the room, hollow and endless. Somewhere, beyond the static, a man’s voice waited to make it official.

Each ring felt like it was echoing inside my chest, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was stepping off the edge of something, about to fall into an unknown that I couldn’t control.

“FBI,” the voice on the other end answered curtly, like it had answered a thousand calls just like mine.

“I—uh—I have information,” I said, my voice trembling, my throat dry. The words felt foreign, but they were out now. And there was no going back.

“I—there’s a list. Of people. In my town. Communist sympathizers. I—” I had to stop myself. Breathe. “I think you need to know.”

There was a pause on the other end—long enough to feel. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to stay calm, stay steady.

The voice had asked for details, for confirmation—what names, who I had seen with whom, who seemed suspicious, who might have been involved. I had answered as best as I could from the letter, offering fragments, barely piecing together the truth, because what truth could I offer?

“Thank you for your cooperation,” the voice said, and that was it.

No more questions. No more explanation. It was done. I had made my choice, and I could already feel the consequences of it, even though they hadn’t fully settled yet.

I hung up the phone, my hand still gripping the receiver long after the line had gone silent.

My breath came out in a rush, and I couldn’t help the tears that started to fill my eyes. I’d done what was expected of me. I had followed the law.

I had chosen to protect myself.

But the guilt was immediate, and it was overwhelming.

I had crossed a line, one I couldn’t erase. The list, the names, the people I’d known—all of them—had been turned in.

And I was the one who had done it.

I thought of Anne, of Mary. The way they looked at me, the way we shared small, almost intimate moments that now felt so meaningless.

What did I really know about them? What did I really know about anyone anymore?

I stood there in the middle of the room, the weight of the choice pressing down on my chest, and I knew, deep down, that I would never be the same.

I’d done what I thought I had to do. I’d chosen survival.

But I couldn’t escape the thought that maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t chosen the right thing.

The Next Few Days

The next few days passed in a blur. I kept my head down, kept my distance, trying to blend in as best as I could. The phone calls, the knocks on doors, the quiet surveillance—everything was happening around me, but I couldn’t bring myself to watch. I couldn’t let myself look, because I knew I would see it. The faces. The lives I’d irrevocably changed.

Then, one morning, Mary’s desk sat empty. By afternoon, her nameplate was gone. Her coffee cup still waited beside the blotter.
Anne’s jokes vanished with her; the air seemed to hold the echo where laughter had been.
No one asked questions. The new hires came quietly, as if they’d always been there.
The office learned how to erase itself.

The streets felt foreign now. Even the air smelled different. People looked at me as if they knew, even if they didn’t. As if I had become something else entirely. A part of this machine that I thought I could avoid. A part of a system I thought I could resist.

Maybe there was no such thing as neutrality. Maybe once a choice was made, there was no going back.

I had told myself I was doing what was right—that following the law would keep me safe. But at what cost?

But I knew one thing for sure: I couldn’t unmake this decision. I couldn’t go back. And that knowledge settled deep inside me, cold and unyielding.

The world felt quieter than usual again. But the quiet no longer wrapped me—it pressed. It pressed on my chest, on my tongue, on the space where a name used to be.

It was the sound of what I’d done. It never left.

The End

Rediscovering The Weight of Quiet
by Clara Jennings, Ivy Caldwell,
Lena Marshall, & Evelyn Brooks

Clara Jennings
“When we first came across Mae Hollister’s story, it felt almost like we were reading a ghost’s diary—one that had been hidden away, forgotten by history. But as we read deeper, it became clear that Mae’s voice wasn’t just a relic; it was a pulse. Mae wrote in a time when speaking out could destroy your life—especially for someone like her, trying to navigate a country in the grip of paranoia and fear. The Red Scare, McCarthyism—it was all around her. And yet, here she was, an ordinary woman, grappling with extraordinary pressure. What struck me most was the quiet weight of her decisions. Mae didn’t just fear for herself—she feared for her entire community. That’s what made her story so necessary, and so powerful.”

Ivy Caldwell
“Mae’s struggle felt so personal to me, especially as we pieced together the context of the Red Scare. Living in New England, the echoes of that fear were all too real. I could almost feel Mae’s hands trembling as she read that letter—wondering if the people she worked with, maybe even those she called friends, would become her enemies overnight. I think that was the hardest part of her story to accept—the uncertainty of what would happen next. There was no clear ‘right’ answer, and her choice wasn’t made out of bravery or courage—it was made because survival, even in silence, felt like the only option left. We all carry something with us, something that defines who we are, and for Mae, it was that crushing choice of whether or not to betray others.”

Lena Marshall
“Discovering Mae’s story was almost like finding a time capsule. I had read about McCarthyism and the political climate, but reading Mae’s personal experience brought it to life in a way I hadn’t anticipated. This wasn’t just about historical context; it was about the real emotional toll of living in that era. The constant fear, the weight of a single phone call that could change your life. What struck me most was her self-doubt. Mae wasn’t a hero—she wasn’t an anti-communist warrior or a communist sympathizer. She was just a woman doing her best to survive in a world that told her she had to choose between her values and her life. And in the end, it wasn’t about what was right—it was about what she could live with.”

Evelyn Brooks
“As the one who helped bring Mae’s story to life visually, it felt like a true collaboration between history and emotion. When we first found her words, it was clear she was a product of her time—a woman who tried to make sense of a world that had turned against its own citizens. I spent days immersing myself in the details—the way the letter would have looked, the environment Mae worked in, and the weight of each decision she made. Every image we as a team created for Mae’s story had to reflect that quiet struggle: the fear, the guilt, the eventual resignation. What hit me hardest was realizing how many women like Mae might have been lost to history, their voices suppressed. This story isn’t just about one woman—it’s a reflection of the time, of the fear that consumed everyday life, and the toll it took on so many people.”

In the margins of Mae’s final page, smudged beneath the date, there was one unfinished line:

“They said it was for the good of the country. I only wanted to belong.”

The ink had bled, as if someone had tried to wipe it away. But it stayed.
We kept it that way.