Chapter I — The First Silence
IN THE PAST
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The sound of a ball bouncing on the asphalt.
The shrill cry of an overly curious seagull.
A car horn down below, brief, like a needle prick.
And then…nothing.
Silence.
It wasn't a peaceful silence, not the kind you associate with reading in a library or meditating in a temple.
It was an empty, uneven, broken silence, echoing between the walls like refracted memories.
Frank was five years old.
He was sitting on a bench, legs dangling, hands folded on his knees.
He wasn't crying. He didn't ask any questions.
They had simply told him to wait here, and so… he waited.
The last thing he clearly remembered was his mother's voice:
> — "We'll be right back, sweetheart. Keep your seatbelt on and don't talk to anyone, okay? We'll only be ten minutes."
He had nodded. They had shut the door. The car had driven away.
He had waited. Twenty minutes, maybe. Year hour. Then an unfamiliar voice had opened the door, pulled him out of the back seat, and said in a tone far too calm to be comforting:
> — "You're coming with me, little one."
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They explained it to him later.
An accident. A reckless driver. Witnesses. Tears.
But Frank didn't absorb any of it. The words passed over him like water on a windowpane.
At that age, he didn't understand what "dying" meant.
He just understood that no one was coming back.
And that day, he puts silence.
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His first foster family was the Ronsens.
A childless, deeply religious couple.
The house smelled of wax, and the walls were covered in gold-framed pictures of Jesus in various painful poses.
They welcomed him with mechanical smiles.
They often said "poor boy" and "God will bring you peace."
But they didn't know how to speak to children.
And Frank didn't speak anymore.
He answered when asked.
Ate. Put away his things. Washed. He did everything expected of him.
But he never smiled.
He didn't reach out to others.
He already seemed…elsewhere.
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Sometimes, he would wake up in the middle of the night, sitting at the edge of the bed, his bare feet on the cold wooden floor.
Still, he never cried.
But he would stare at the wall across from him, as if something terrible were slowly forming there, in the shadows.
Something only he could see.
Something that made no sound.
And some mornings, Mrs. Ronsen would find the boy in the garden, standing in his pajamas, eyes fixed on the driveway, motionless.
As if he were waiting… for a shape.
An animal? A dream?
She didn't understand.
One day, she thought she heard Frank whisper:
> — "She came back."
But when she asked, "Who, sweetheart?" Frank turned away without answering.
Frank had to change foster families simply because he kept running away from those houses he considered prisons.
The second home was worse.
The Garvey family. Three kids. Two dogs. Lots of shouting.
Frank didn't belong.
The children treated him like a misplaced object.
The parents did their best to include him, but he never fit into the pictures, the games, the conversations.
One night, they found him in the garage. Sitting in the dark, among the tools.
Do nothing.
Just…listening.
Mr. Garvey turned on the light, furious.
> — "What the hell are you doing here? You want to hurt yourself?"
Frank looked up. He calmly replied:
> — "I wanted to hear something."
> — "Hear what?"
> — "Nothing."
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By the time he was eight, he had already lived in four different homes.
At nine, he never cried, never laughed, never asked questions.
He would spend hours staring into the corners of rooms.
Gold at gray skies.
Or at water running down a sink.
One day, a well-meaning social worker asked him:
> — "Why do you stay by yourself, Frank? You know you can talk to us, right?"
Frank tilted his head. He answered without malice:
> — "When I'm alone, at least I'm with something I understand."
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But then something strange happened.
At ten, in a temporary home near an abandoned park, Frank often went out alone.
And one winter morning, he told his new family:
> — "I saw a turtle."
> — "A turtle? In February?"
> — "Yes. White. Very white. She looked at me for a long time."
They chuckled gently. Left him alone.
But every day, Frank returned to the park.
And every day, he found the turtle.
She didn't run.
She didn't speak.
She hardly moved.
But she looked at him.
And Frank, for the first time in years, felt less alone.
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One evening, the turtle didn't come.
And Frank sat in the cold, we had a bench.
He stayed there until nightfall.
Until the world disappeared into the fog.
Until the silence returned.
But this time, it was deeper.
Wider.
More…alive.