Chapter 5: Sounds Become Words
The morning sun filtered softly through the wooden slats, painting the room in golden light. Rai's eyes opened slowly, blinking against the brightness.
Voices filled the room. Words he could not understand, sounds that made no sense… and yet, over the months, he had begun to notice small, repeated patterns. A certain tone meant comfort. Another meant warning. A longer, softer rhythm meant attention.
He listened. He watched. He tried.
Today, something felt different.
The woman knelt beside him, holding a small, colorful object. She spoke rapidly, her hands moving as she talked. Rai didn't know the words, but he noticed the pattern. He stretched out a hand, curling his fingers around the object just as she had expected.
Her eyes widened, and she laughed softly. Her voice was warm, teasing—but the tone told him she was pleased. The man watched from nearby, smiling faintly, his head tilted in quiet approval.
It felt… good.
Rai tried again, imitating the sounds he had heard so often. His voice, tiny and clumsy, produced a soft "ma…" He repeated it, uncertain, feeling the vibrations in his mouth. The woman leaned closer, her expression softening. She repeated the sound slowly, exaggerating it. "Ma…"
Rai listened. He tried again. "Ma…"
A smile. Laughter. Encouragement. He didn't understand the meaning of the sound yet, but the tone—warm, approving—told him he was doing well.
The day passed in a rhythm of observation and imitation. Rai learned to reach for objects before his parents offered them. He learned to respond to gestures, to anticipate movements, and to sense the meaning behind tones.
He still did not understand the language. He could not speak words, could not read gestures perfectly. But he could communicate in small ways: a tug of the hand, a look of focus, a coo of satisfaction. And every time, the reaction told him he was understood.
As evening fell, Rai lay against his mother's chest, tired but content. The man crouched nearby, humming quietly, his voice low and steady. Rai's eyes followed him, trying to mimic the rhythm, the tone, the movement of lips and hands.
Even without words, even without understanding, he began to feel the first faint threads of connection between sound and meaning.
And somewhere deep in his mind, the quiet reminder waited, unspoken but persistent:
This space will open again in ten years.
For now, Rai did not think about it. There were voices to hear, hands to watch, faces to study. There was warmth, care, and a strange, growing sense of belonging.
And that was enough.