The cold air bit at Lian's cheeks as he walked to school, leaves crunching beneath his worn sneakers. The city was waking up, but something inside him felt quieter than usual.
In class, Ms. Devon handed back their latest poems. Lian's was there, the edges slightly curled, the ink smudged where he'd nervously gripped the paper. He glanced around — Jamie caught his eye and smiled encouragingly.
The bell rang, breaking the moment.
Later, in the school library, Lian found Mr. Arman shelving books. Their eyes met briefly.
"No words today?" Mr. Arman asked softly.
Lian shook his head. "Sometimes, silence says more."
Mr. Arman nodded. "There is truth in that."
At home, the evening stretched long and calm. His mother prepared dinner in near silence, her movements a steady rhythm.
Lian sat beside her, folding origami cranes from scraps of paper. Each fold felt like a small prayer — a hope for understanding, for peace.
He watched his mother smile faintly when he offered her a crane.
No translation needed.
The next morning, Lian found a note taped to his bedroom door:
"Sometimes, the quiet between words is where the heart speaks loudest."
He folded the note carefully and tucked it into his sketchbook.
Outside, the wind whispered secrets through the trees.
And Lian listened.