Morning crept into the chamber not with light but with the slow dripping of water against stone, each drop echoing in the silence. She woke with her cheek pressed against the damp floor, her body stiff from the cold. The silence of the previous night still clung to her skin like frost. For the first time in many days, fear had wormed its way into her heart—not of death, but of losing him to silence forever.
She had promised herself she would endure, and she had spoken into the stillness until her voice failed her. Yet the doubt gnawed: what if the wall would never carry his voice again? What if she had spoken only to emptiness?
The day dragged itself forward with agonising slowness. She ate the crust of bread left for her, drank from the iron cup, and stared at the wall until her eyes burned. The memory of his laughter—so faint, so fragile—echoed in her, taunting and comforting in equal measure.
When night fell, her body trembled with anticipation and dread. She pressed her ear to the wall as she had done countless times before, whispering softly, "I am here. I am waiting."
For a long time, there was nothing. She closed her eyes, holding back the tears. Her heart beat painfully in her chest, as though straining to listen more closely. Then—so faint she almost thought it a trick of memory—she heard it.
His voice.
Not strong, not steady, but real. "Forgive me," he whispered.
A sob escaped her lips before she could stop it. She pressed her palm against the wall, clutching at its coldness as though it were his hand. "You are here," she cried softly. "You are here."
"Yes," came his reply, weak but insistent. "I was too weary last night. I tried, but the words would not come. I feared you would think me gone."
Her tears flowed freely now, but they were tears of relief. "Gone? I would never believe it. Even in silence, I felt you. You are with me always."
The pause that followed was filled not with fear but with tenderness. Then his voice came again, steadier than before. "Your voice saved me. I could not speak, but I heard you. Every word, every story you told—I carried them into my dreams. You kept me alive."
She pressed her forehead to the wall, her body shaking. "And you keep me alive. Every whisper, every breath—you are the reason I endure."
The silence that followed was different from the night before. This silence was not void but presence, filled with the weight of all they could not say. At last, he spoke again.
"Do you still see it?" he asked.
"See what?" she whispered.
"The meadow. The river. The sky without bars."
Her breath caught. She closed her eyes, recalling the picture he had once painted for her. "Yes," she whispered. "I see it every night. I see us there, walking side by side, free."
He exhaled, the sound soft but certain. "Then hold to it. One day, we will see it not with our minds, but with our eyes."
She smiled through her tears. "One day," she echoed.
For the rest of the night, they spoke in fragments—half-formed dreams, scattered memories, words of comfort passed back and forth like precious jewels. She told him of the stories she had whispered into the silence, of the fables of travellers finding their way home. He told her of his determination, of the strength he found in imagining her voice guiding him through the darkness.
When exhaustion claimed them, they did not surrender to despair. Instead, they surrendered to hope—the fragile, unyielding hope that bound them together across the stone.
As she drifted into sleep, her hand still pressed to the wall, she whispered one final vow. "Never leave me in silence again."
And though his voice was faint, it came to her clear enough to soothe her heart. "Never. Not while breath remains in me."
She fell asleep smiling, and for the first time in many nights, the silence felt not like absence but like a promise—the promise that tomorrow, and every day after, their voices would continue to find each other, no matter the walls that stood between them.