Chapter 5 — Echoes of Her Heart
The rain returned to Seattle the next morning, soft and steady, turning the city gray and glistening. Drops slid down the windows of the coffee shop where Arin worked, painting faint trails of light on the glass.
He liked rainy days. People talked less when it rained. Their thoughts slowed down, softened, and he could almost breathe normally.
But even as customers came and went, Arin's mind wandered to only one person.
Maya.
Every time the bell above the door chimed, he looked up instinctively, hoping it might be her. Most of the time, it wasn't. But even when she wasn't there, something strange had started happening — he could still feel her.
It wasn't hearing, exactly. Not like the thoughts of strangers that crowded his head. It was more like a quiet pulse inside his chest — a sense of warmth and calm that spread through him whenever he thought of her.
At first, he dismissed it as imagination. But then, one afternoon, as he wiped down tables, it happened again.
A wave of emotion hit him — soft, gentle, and sad. It wasn't his sadness. It was hers.
He froze, gripping the cloth in his hand. "Maya?" he whispered under his breath, though she was nowhere near.
He didn't understand it, but somehow, her feelings reached him, echoing faintly inside.
---
Later that day, after his shift, he found himself walking faster than usual toward the lake. The rain had stopped, leaving the grass damp and shining.
She was there — sitting under a large tree with her sketchbook. But this time, her shoulders looked tense, her expression distant. She didn't notice him at first.
When she finally did, she smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
He sat beside her quietly. "Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"
She hesitated, then scribbled something on her notebook.
> "Just tired."
Arin nodded, studying her face. "You don't have to pretend, you know."
Her hand stopped midair. She looked at him, surprised. Then slowly, she wrote:
> "How did you know?"
He smiled faintly. "I don't know. I just felt it."
She tilted her head, curious. Then, for the first time, she didn't write anything. She just looked at him — really looked — as if trying to read him the same way he'd somehow read her.
The air between them grew still. The lake reflected the fading sky, and for a moment, everything around them disappeared.
Then she closed her notebook, leaned back on the bench, and let out a deep, silent sigh.
Arin spoke gently. "You don't have to say anything. Just… sit with me."
She nodded.
And they did. For a long time, they simply sat in silence — the kind of silence that didn't feel empty, but full. Full of things they didn't need to explain.
---
The days passed like that — quietly, softly. Some mornings they met at the café; other times, at the lake. Sometimes they said nothing for hours, and it still felt enough.
Arin began to notice small details about her — how she always looked at people's hands when they talked, how she tilted her head slightly when she laughed, and how her eyes softened when she smiled at him.
He also noticed how his gift — or curse — began to change. The voices he used to hear so clearly were fading. The constant storm inside his head had quieted into a drizzle.
It was like her silence wasn't just protecting her… it was healing him.
---
One evening, as they walked home together, the city lights glowed against the wet pavement. Arin carried his umbrella over both of them. Maya's hand brushed against his once, then again.
This time, she didn't pull away.
He looked at her, their shoulders almost touching, and said quietly, "You know… I used to hate silence. It reminded me of loneliness."
She looked up, curious.
He continued, "But now, it feels different. With you, it feels peaceful."
She smiled and wrote on her pad:
> "Maybe silence just needed the right person."
He laughed softly. "Maybe it did."
---
That night, Arin couldn't sleep. He sat by his window, the rain whispering against the glass. His mind was quiet — except for the memory of her smile.
He took out his journal, something he hadn't touched in years. For so long, he'd been afraid to write — afraid his thoughts would turn into more noise. But now, the words came easily.
> "She doesn't speak, and I hear too much. But when we're together, the world balances itself. Her silence is the only sound that doesn't hurt."
He closed the notebook and leaned back, exhaling softly.
And then, suddenly, that same warmth filled his chest again — that emotional echo of her.
Only this time, it wasn't sadness. It was something lighter. Joy.
He smiled, eyes closed, letting the feeling wash over him. Even without words, he knew what she was trying to say.
She was thinking of him too.
---
The next morning, when he arrived at the park, Maya was waiting for him with something in her hands — a small folded piece of paper. She handed it to him, smiling shyly.
He unfolded it and read:
> "You always listen to me. I hope you know, even when I can't speak, I hear you too."
For a long moment, Arin couldn't say anything. His throat tightened, his eyes stung.
He looked at her and said softly, "That means more than you know."
She smiled, tilting her head — a silent you're welcome.
The lake rippled with light. Birds passed overhead. And for the first time in years, Arin felt completely alive.
It wasn't the kind of love that came with grand gestures or loud promises. It was quieter, simpler — built on glances, notes, and a silence that spoke louder than words ever could.
And though neither of them said it out loud, they both knew:
Something beautiful had begun.