The silence dragged on like the still air after a scream.
She stood there, on the other side of the lake, her presence unreal. A girl wrapped in a ruined kimono, white as her tangled hair. The stains on the fabric had long since dried, faded brown like old rust. The breeze tugged gently at her sleeves, yet she didn't flinch. Not a single step, not a blink.
Veyle didn't even realize he'd stood up.
His legs trembled, the aftershock of desperation still clutching at his muscles. The water clung to his chin, his chest, his knees—but he didn't care anymore. Hunger forgotten. Thirst forgotten. All his senses focused on her.
He swallowed.
"…Who… are you?"
His voice cracked halfway through, dry and hoarse, just above a whisper.
The girl didn't answer.
But her hands rose slowly.
Slender fingers moved in practiced shapes—slow, clear. As if she knew he wouldn't understand if she rushed it.
I am Seren.
Veyle's breath hitched.
That language—those signs.
He blinked, and—
---
He was small again.
Kneeling in the living room on the thick carpet, sunlight pouring through the window. Dust floated through the air like drifting gold, caught in the beams that made everything feel soft, warm, distant.
His mother sat cross-legged across from him, her smile calm, ever gentle. Her dark hair was tied loosely, strands curling over her shoulder, and her fingers moved with practiced ease—graceful, fluid, silent.
"Again," she mouthed, her voice quiet as always, lips moving with care but without sound.
She signed the word again.
Mother.
He copied it with small, clumsy hands. She nodded.
"Now…" she mouthed, her fingers shaping a different word.
Safe.
He frowned, pausing—then tried.
Wrong.
She giggled—no sound, only the way her shoulders shook, that tiny scrunch of her nose. The expression that told him she was amused, not angry.
She reached for him gently and showed him again.
Then, suddenly, she signed something else. Something slower.
He didn't know this one.
She tapped her chest.
Then pointed at him.
Fingers curled delicately.
Love.
He blinked.
She repeated it, her movements slower, more deliberate this time. She waited. No pressure—just patience.
He tried, hesitated, got the motion wrong.
But she only smiled wider. Her hands moved again—not correcting him, not yet. Just saying it again, one more time.
Love.
She leaned forward, pressed her forehead gently against his, the way she always did when he got frustrated or confused. Her touch was warm. Her arms wrapped around him.
He could feel her heartbeat, steady and slow.
The memory smelled like laundry and citrus. It felt like arms around him in a world of silence.
It was the first language he ever learned.
The one that didn't need sound.
—
The cold memory bled i
Veyle's throat burned. Not from thirst. From memory.
The signs… he remembered them.
He raised his hands, unsteady. Fingers stiff, trembling.
Seren. He signed it back. Her name. Then, slowly:
My name is Veyle.
Her pale eyes widened. Only for a second.
Then… the faintest, smallest nod.
She took one cautious step closer to the edge of the lake.
And Veyle, for the first time since waking in this broken world, felt something unfamiliar crawl into his chest:
A flicker of connection.
Seren's gaze didn't waver.
She looked at him like someone peering through glass—not distrustful, but uncertain whether he was truly real.
Veyle swallowed the lump in his throat. His hands, though still trembling, lifted again.
"I was thirsty," he signed, slowly, then spoke it aloud as well, just in case. "That's why I came here. I didn't know this lake belonged to anyone."
Seren's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but with something like amusement. Then her fingers moved:
I can hear. I'm not deaf. Just mute.
Veyle blinked, a bit embarrassed.
Veyle: "Ah… okay. That's good. Still… I think I prefer signing with you."
His fingers stumbled through the motion, half-remembered and clumsy. But he said it anyway. Spoke it aloud. Signed it too. Both—like he didn't know which would reach her better.
The girl—Seren—tilted her head, like she was processing something beyond his words.
Seren: Why?
Her question cut through the quiet, sharp and effortless. No accusation. No harshness. Just a question that belonged in the air between them, unanswered.
"…It reminds me of Muma." Veyle signed, his hands moving with slow hesitation, like he was digging up something buried, long forgotten.
Seren blinked, the motion almost imperceptible.
Seren: What's… Muma?
The pause that followed felt heavier than before. Veyle felt something inside him tighten, as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of the question.
"...My mother."
He said it aloud. The word felt raw in his mouth, like it hadn't been spoken in lifetimes.
Seren: Mother...?
Her lips formed the word, but there was no echo in her voice. No weight to it. As if she was tasting the shape of it for the first time.
Veyle's eyes lingered on her, unsure if he should push further. The silence stretched on, and as he met her gaze, something in his chest twisted painfully. Her face was unreadable—no flicker of recognition, no understanding. Just the same stillness.
She wasn't just quiet.
She was... absent.
"Do you live out here?"
His question hung in the air between them, fragile. Half a whisper. Half a lifeline.
Seren: Yes.
The word was calm, like a ripple that disturbed the water's surface and then settled back into stillness.
He wanted to ask more, but the words wouldn't come. And the longer he stood there, the more that stillness seemed to swallow him.
"Alone?"
Her hands hesitated.
Then, slowly, her fingers formed the response, deliberate and sure.
Seren: Alone is safer.
Her voice—though silent—spoke the words plainly. As if they were a rule of life, not an observation. No emotion. No depth. It was as if she had been taught this truth long ago, and had long since stopped questioning it.
Veyle's throat tightened, something twisting beneath his ribs.
"…I didn't mean to intrude," he said, his hands moving again. A clumsy gesture, but sincere. Signed and spoken, like he was trying to reach through the fog between them.
But Seren didn't respond.
She just stood there, staring at him, like the answer to his apology didn't matter. Like the apology itself was unnecessary.
Veyle felt a cold prickle crawl up his spine.
She didn't know.
There was something strange, something he couldn't place, in her eyes. A lack of recognition, yes—but also a strange void. Something was missing in her. Or, perhaps… she had never known it at all.
It was as if she didn't remember the world the way he did.
He wanted to say something more, but as he looked at her, he couldn't find the words.
Seren remained silent. She didn't look away, but there was no softness in her gaze. She just… was.
Something in her seemed to exist beyond the limits of what he could understand.
Veyle's frustration boiled over, his words tumbling out in a messy, disjointed rush.
"Seriously! Who leaves a kid out here, all alone, in the middle of nowhere? What kind of sick, twisted world is this where kids are left to fend for themselves like this? You don't survive out here without someone to look after you, without—"
His hands flew through the air, each word punctuated by a wild gesture, as if he could force the world to listen. The anger surged in him like a storm, and he felt the need to yell it all out.
"I mean, what are you supposed to do? You can't just survive like this! It's impossible! No one should have to—" He stopped suddenly, his voice getting higher, cracking in a way that made his chest tighten. "You can't… you can't just be left like this! Alone in the middle of all this! Do you know how dangerous it is out here? How cruel it is to leave someone a child to fend for themselves—!"
His words tumbled out of control, raw and ragged, like a floodgate that had broken open. The frustrations he had been holding inside for so long poured out in a single unstoppable rush. His heart pounded as he paced back and forth in front of her, barely even noticing her stillness, her silence. His mind was consumed with the idea of someone—anyone—being left like this, abandoned.
"It's just... it's just..." He ran a hand through his messy hair, his words faltering, his voice shaky. "It's just wrong, okay? No one should ever have to go through this alone. Who would do that to a child? Who would let them suffer like that?"
He took a deep breath, staring at the ground, not knowing how to explain the torrent of emotions flooding him. "You need someone with you to survive! You can't... you can't just—"
He stopped.
The words hung in the air, but something had shifted. The heat of his anger died down, replaced by something much colder. He looked at Seren, his gaze softening, finally noticing the tremble in her form. She wasn't just staring at him; she was shaking. The sight of her, wide-eyed and fragile, her body wracked with quiet sobs, pierced him like a knife.
It was only then that he realized.
She wasn't just sitting there. She was crying.
The realization made his heart sink, and his mouth went dry.
He had been so caught up in his own frustration, in the storm of his thoughts, that he hadn't even seen how his words were affecting her. His chest tightened as he took a step back, his breath caught in his throat.
Her hands were at her face, wiping at her tears, but she didn't try to speak. She didn't sign anything. She didn't do anything. She just... cried.
A sudden rush of guilt surged through him. He had wanted to fix it, to say something right, but now all his anger seemed meaningless in the face of her pain. His stomach twisted in knots.
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. There were no words that could undo the damage he'd done, no apology that could make it right. He thought about saying sorry, but it felt small, insignificant—like it wouldn't do anything at all.
Instead, without a word, he moved forward and gently wrapped his arms around her. His hands were shaky, unsure, but he held her close, just… holding her.
The warmth of her body against his chest felt like the only thing grounding him. He could feel the trembling of her form, her fragile presence breaking something inside him. And it made him want to protect her—keep her from any more hurt, any more pain.
He didn't know what to say. He couldn't fix this. He just... held her, trying to offer something—anything—that might offer comfort. But his words failed him. His anger failed him.
And so, in the quiet of the moment, Veyle just stayed there, holding her in the silence, hoping somehow that it would be enough.
"You can count on me,to save you…" veyle whispers
…