Chapter 7 — The Sound of a Memory
The rain had returned to Seattle that week — soft, steady, and endless.
For most people, it was just another gray morning.
For Arin, it was a reminder of how silence could sometimes sound like peace.
He sat in the small coffee shop by the corner window, waiting for Maya.
The place had become their spot — her sketchbook always between them, his coffee always going cold as they talked about everything and nothing.
But today, she was late.
He stared out the window, watching raindrops race down the glass.
His mind picked up fragments of thoughts from the tables nearby — the waitress worrying about rent, a couple arguing silently over something small, a student stressing over an exam.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. The noise of other people's minds was like static — constant, buzzing, and uninvited.
Then, as if on cue, the doorbell chimed.
She walked in, her umbrella dripping, her scarf slightly undone. And just like that — the noise vanished.
It always did when she arrived.
The world quieted.
---
"Hey," he said softly, smiling as she took her seat across from him.
She smiled back and wrote on her pad,
> "Sorry, the rain slowed me down."
"No problem," he said. "You made it."
She sipped her drink, her eyes scanning him for a moment. Then she wrote again:
> "You look tired. Too many voices?"
He froze for a second. It wasn't the first time she had guessed something so perfectly.
He didn't remember ever telling her that he struggled with noise — not like this.
He tried to laugh it off. "Something like that."
But inside, he wondered — how does she always know?
---
After a while, they decided to walk by the lake again. The air smelled like rain and pine. The pavement glistened beneath their feet.
She walked beside him quietly, her umbrella barely large enough for both of them. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed, and every time it did, his heart felt strangely lighter.
Then she stopped and pointed toward a small bench near the water.
He followed her there, and they sat.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. She pulled out her sketchbook, and he watched as her hand moved swiftly, sketching the lake, the trees, and finally — him.
When she finished, she tore the page out and handed it to him.
It was beautiful, but different from her usual work. The lines were soft, almost trembling. His eyes weren't clear; they were distant — lost.
He smiled faintly. "Is that how I look to you?"
She nodded gently. Then she wrote something below the drawing:
> "You hear too much, don't you?"
The words hit him like a quiet thunderclap.
He looked up at her, confused. "What do you mean?"
She paused, her eyes heavy with understanding. Then she wrote again:
> "Sometimes your eyes react before you speak. It's like you know what people are going to say."
Arin's heartbeat quickened. He didn't know how to respond.
For years, he'd hidden that part of himself. It wasn't something you just told someone.
He forced a weak laugh. "You really notice everything, don't you?"
But she didn't laugh.
Instead, she held his gaze, her expression serious, gentle, and knowing — as if she understood more than she let on.
---
After a long pause, she scribbled something else:
> "I used to hear too much too. Not like you. But with feelings. Before I lost my voice."
His breath caught. He leaned in. "Before… you lost your voice?"
She hesitated. Her eyes glistened faintly as she looked away. Her fingers trembled slightly as she wrote,
> "There was an accident. A long time ago. I saw something… someone I loved didn't survive. I stopped speaking that day."
He felt a sting in his chest. He wanted to say something comforting, but words suddenly felt too small for the weight she carried.
She continued,
> "The doctors said my voice might come back. But it never did. The silence stayed. I started thinking in pictures instead of words. It's easier that way."
Arin stared at her handwriting — small, neat, and soft — and suddenly everything made sense.
That was why he couldn't hear her.
His gift only caught words — thoughts shaped like sentences, not feelings.
Her mind didn't speak in words anymore. She lived in images, emotions, and colors.
Her silence wasn't emptiness. It was a different kind of language.
---
He looked at her, his throat tight. "Maya… when I'm near you, everything in my head goes quiet."
She blinked, surprised.
He smiled faintly. "You're the only person I can't hear."
She didn't understand at first. Then, slowly, her eyes widened.
He explained, voice trembling slightly, "I can hear what people think — their fears, lies, secrets — all of it. But not you. You're quiet. Peaceful. It's like standing in sunlight after years of rain."
Tears welled in her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hand, overwhelmed.
Then she quickly wrote,
> "So I'm your silence?"
He nodded softly. "Yeah. You are."
She stared at him for a long time, her lips trembling — as if she wanted to say something, anything, but her voice still wouldn't come.
He reached out and gently touched her hand. "You don't need words, Maya. You already say more than anyone ever could."
Her eyes met his, glistening, and for a moment, the world around them disappeared — the rain, the city, the noise, all fading into stillness.
It wasn't love spoken aloud. It was love understood — through eyes, through touch, through quiet hearts.
---
That night, as he walked home alone under the rain, he couldn't stop thinking about her.
He finally understood what her silence meant — not weakness, not loss, but strength.
She had survived something that would have broken most people.
And somehow, in her silence, she had given him the thing he'd wanted all his life — peace.
He whispered to himself, smiling faintly,
> "Maybe love isn't something you hear… maybe it's something you feel."