Veyle's world was quiet, and that was okay. It had always been that way. He had never known life to be loud or chaotic. His mother had made sure of that. In their small apartment, there were no raised voices, no shouting, no unnecessary noise. The only sounds were the soft clicks of her fingers moving through the air, signing the language that only they understood.
It was a routine that Veyle had come to cherish. Every day, his mother would wake him up with a warm smile and a soft kiss on the forehead. Then, they would begin their day together. Her hands would move, forming the familiar signs in front of him.
"Good morning, Veyle," she would sign, her fingers slow but sure.
He would smile back, his little hands trying to mimic her signs, his face lighting up with pride. "Good morning, Mama."
Every day, after breakfast, they'd go for walks in the park near their apartment. It was a small park, with old, creaky benches and a pond that was always calm, like the world had stopped moving just for them. They would walk hand in hand, and Veyle would point at the birds, the flowers, the trees, asking questions in the way that children do.
His mother would answer each question patiently, signing the words and gestures that made the world clearer for him. She never got frustrated, never rushed him. To her, every moment was precious, and they took their time.
One afternoon, as they sat on a bench, watching the leaves fall from the trees, his mother signed something different. It was simple, but it held a weight that Veyle hadn't felt before.
"I love you," she signed, her hands slow and deliberate.
Veyle blinked, unsure at first. He was still learning the signs. He'd learned so much, but this one always slipped through his fingers. The gesture was too intricate, and his hands were still small. He tried to mimic it, but the signs never felt right. He always made a mistake.
"I love you," he signed back, but the movement wasn't perfect. His hands fumbled, one finger out of place.
His mother smiled, that gentle, understanding smile. She never scolded him, never made him feel bad. She just signed again, repeating it, "I love you," and this time, he could see the patience in her eyes. She didn't care if he got it right; she just wanted him to feel it.
But every time, without fail, Veyle's hands would get the sign wrong.
One evening, after they'd finished dinner—Veyle having his favorite: simple rice and miso soup—his mother leaned over the table, her hands cupping his small ones.
"I love you," she signed, slower this time, as if she were teaching him all over again.
Veyle swallowed, watching her hands. He'd learned so many signs, but this one... it always seemed to slip away. It was the simplest one, and yet, it felt like the hardest to get right. His hands moved, clumsy, shaking slightly. He tried his best, but he knew it wasn't perfect.
"I love you," he signed back, but there was that hesitation, that imperfection in the way his fingers met. He saw her smile, and for a moment, he thought she might laugh, but she didn't. She just nodded and signed again, gently encouraging him.
"I love you," she repeated.
The night continued on like that, with Veyle fumbling over the signs, trying so hard, but never quite getting it right. His mother's gentle patience never wavered, her love shining through the movements of her hands.
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The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. Veyle grew older, and his world began to expand beyond their quiet apartment. His mother's health began to decline, slowly at first, like a shadow that crept in unnoticed. Her hands weren't as steady as they used to be. Her energy waned, and the days felt longer, more difficult.
But even in those days, when the smile faded from her face and the warmth left her hands, she never stopped signing.
"I love you," she'd sign, though her voice had become faint, her body weaker. Veyle could see it in her eyes—the way they would droop, the way she would sit on the couch longer, her body leaning against the pillows like it was too heavy to lift anymore.
He tried harder. Every time she signed to him, he made sure his hands were right. He couldn't afford to mess it up anymore.
"I love you," he signed, but his hands still weren't quite right. There was always one mistake, one slip-up, and it broke his heart every time.
"I love you," she would sign back. She never once looked disappointed.
But then came the night that it all ended.
Veyle woke to find his mother in bed, her face pale, her breath shallow. He sat beside her, holding her hand. Her skin was cold. She had been so warm, so full of life just a few days ago, and now she seemed so small, so fragile.
"Mom?" he signed, his hands shaking.
Her fingers twitched weakly in response, but she couldn't sign back. Her eyes fluttered, and her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out.
And then, just like that, she was gone. Her hand went limp in his, and the world around him fell silent.
The next few days felt like a haze. People came and went, talking in low voices, but none of it made sense to Veyle. He couldn't grasp the concept of loss, not fully. His mother had been his world, and now... she was gone.
At her funeral, Veyle stood next to her casket, numb, feeling nothing but an empty void inside him. The world around him moved as if it was just a blur. But in his mind, he could still see her hands, still feel her gentle signing.
"I love you," he signed in the empty air, his hands trembling. It was the first time he'd gotten the sign right in years.
But it was too late.
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