Chapter 2 — A Life in Echoes
The next morning, Arin woke up to the soft hum of rain against his window. The city was quiet, wrapped in a grey blanket of clouds. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to hold onto the memory of last night — that strange, peaceful silence that had surrounded him when he met Maya.
Her name still echoed in his mind, but not like the other voices. It wasn't loud, or messy, or painful. It was soft — like a quiet melody that stayed in the background of his thoughts.
He got up, made himself some coffee, and sat by the window. The city below was just waking up — people heading to work, kids rushing to school, cars honking. With every person that passed, bits of their inner voices brushed against his mind.
"I'm late again."
"I hope she texts me today."
"Don't forget to smile."
He sighed. The noise was back — as heavy as always. He missed that silence already.
He wondered about her — Maya. Who she was. Why she couldn't speak. How her silence had somehow silenced his chaos too.
He spent the rest of the morning lost in thought, the small paper note she'd written lying beside his coffee mug:
> "Thank you for saving me. — Maya"
He must've read it a hundred times. Each time, it made him smile.
By noon, he decided to go for a walk near the park — the same place where he had saved her. The rain had stopped, leaving puddles that reflected the dull sky.
He didn't expect to see her again. But there she was.
Sitting on the same bench near the lake, her hair tied back, sketching something in a small notebook. She was wearing a pale blue coat and had a calm expression on her face.
For a second, Arin thought about turning back — he didn't want to disturb her. But then she looked up and saw him.
Her eyes lit up, and she smiled.
That small smile was enough to make him walk over.
"Hey," he said gently.
She waved and opened her notebook, quickly writing something down before showing it to him.
> "You again :)"
He chuckled softly. "Yeah. I, uh, come here sometimes. Didn't think I'd run into you."
She scribbled again.
> "Me too. I like this place. It's quiet."
"Yeah," Arin said, sitting beside her. "Quiet's nice."
For a while, neither of them said anything. She kept sketching — a drawing of the lake, the trees, and the reflection of the sky. He just watched her hand move across the page, calm and steady.
It amazed him how peaceful she looked. He couldn't hear her thoughts at all. It was like she existed outside the noise of the world.
After a moment, she turned the page toward him, showing her drawing.
It was simple but beautiful.
"This is really good," he said sincerely. "You're talented."
She smiled and wrote again.
> "I draw because it's the only way I can speak."
Something about that hit him hard. He looked at her face, at her calm eyes and the way her fingers held the pencil — gentle but strong. She had learned to live without words, and yet she seemed more at peace than anyone he had ever met.
He nodded slowly. "That's… actually really beautiful."
They spent the rest of the afternoon together — not talking much, just sitting side by side. She'd draw something, he'd make a small comment, and every once in a while she'd laugh silently, her shoulders shaking a little.
It was strange. He had spent most of his life trying to escape people's thoughts, but with her, he didn't want to leave.
When evening came, she packed her sketchbook and stood up, brushing off her coat. Before leaving, she took her notepad again and wrote something new.
> "Will you be here tomorrow?"
Arin looked at her, surprised — and then smiled. "Yeah. Same time?"
She nodded, smiling too. Then she waved and walked away, her steps light and graceful.
He stood there for a while, watching her disappear down the path. The city's noise crept back into his head, but it didn't bother him as much this time. Somewhere beneath all the chaos, her quiet presence lingered — soft, steady, and warm.
---
The next few days followed the same pattern.
Every evening, Arin went to the park. Every evening, Maya was there.
They didn't need words. She wrote little notes; he spoke softly, sometimes joking, sometimes just sitting beside her in silence.
He learned small things about her — that she loved drawing lakes and skies, that she worked at an art supply store nearby, and that she had lost her voice years ago in an accident.
She never went into detail about it, and he never asked. He could have read her mind, but somehow, with her, he didn't even try. It felt wrong — like invading a sacred silence.
One evening, as the sunset painted the sky orange and pink, Arin asked quietly, "Do you ever miss talking?"
She hesitated, then wrote on her pad:
> "Sometimes. But silence isn't always empty. It says things words can't."
He read it twice, the simplicity of it sinking deep into his chest.
He smiled softly. "You know, you sound wiser than most people I've ever met."
She chuckled silently, then wrote,
> "That's because I listen more than I talk."
They both laughed.
As the light faded, Maya looked at the lake, then at him. She wrote one more thing before she left.
> "Thank you for not being afraid of silence."
When she walked away, Arin sat there for a long time, the note resting in his hands.
For years, he had run from the noise in his mind. But now, he found himself chasing silence — her silence.
And deep down, he knew — this was just the beginning.