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The last time he heard you speak was when you were fourteen. With children, even in such terrible conditions, there's still an innate innocence difficult to part with. They can ignore the other kid's crying. They can bounce back from harsh scolding. Their faces, so soft and unknowing aren't trained the way that the older orphans' are. As a kid, you're as talkative as any other child in Gotham. You delight in the pennies you find under thrown out newspapers, trace patterns on frosted windows during winter and enjoy watching cars pass by as you wait inside the orphanage, still optimistic that some day you'll be taken in by a loving family.
But when you reach your teens, it's like a candle is snuffed out.
Edward learned from an early age, much earlier than the other kids, that the world was an awful cruel place. Seeing you, on the edge of young adulthood still so optimistic was like watching a ship approach an iceberg; it's not a question of whether you'll hit it, it would only be a matter of when you would crash.
Hardly anyone ever adopts a teenager, least of all in Gotham. Too rowdy, too old, can't rename them to something you like and you have to deal with the pain of teenage angst without having made an attachment to them when they're babies. So the pennies you find on the streets don't add up to anything. The ice on the windows creeping into your bones and biting your skin. The cars that pass by the orphanage are just a bitter reminder that you're unwanted.
It's those meaningless cents, the nights spent shivering, and the passing cars that build up your silence, but it's the let down of being so close to family that pushed you over the edge.
One day, the matron of the orphanage called you to her office. With a smile you now know to be a façade, she sits you down across from a wealthy appearing couple. It's all pleasantries, and you thought everything was right as rain. They couldn't have a child of their own, so what better to do than adopt one? They seemed to like you, and you liked them very much so when they left, you were rocking on your heels waiting for the matron to give you the good news.
But it never came.
Day after day, you sat in the room you shared with nine other girls, awaiting to be called back but you heard nothing. When you went to ask the matron where the nice couple were, it was as if she pushed you head first into the Gotham bay. They weren't coming. They'd been able to conceive.
That's when you lost your voice.
Rather, you didn't lose your voice, they stole it from you.
Now, Edward is and was an eavesdropper, so he heard everything of what transpired in the matron's office. With a grimace, he would take you under his arm as you sobbed. He'd hold you in the way that you so desperately needed from a parent.
He'd seen it before, but the way you handled it felt like his heart was getting ripped out. Most orphans turned to drugs or sex or gambling to drown their sorrows, but Ed never saw you partake in any of that. You just... shut down.
Throughout his years at the orphanage, Ed managed to hide a good amount of money under his mattress from betting. He'd saved enough to get a cramped apartment for the two of you and slowly you began to heal. You went about your routines, holding whatever job would take you; waitressing came and went, you didn't have the qualifications for the white collar jobs, and your longest stint was as a night janitor at Gotham Central. What little you earned you insisted Edward take to help cover rent, and though he took it to placate you, he'd put it in a reserve jar, never spending any of it.
Edward had no regrets when he decided to burn the abandoned orphanage down. At some point you had confided in him (through writing of course) that you wished you would never see the building ever again, and Ed really took that to heart.
He leads you down the street minutes after it really caught, walking casually as if he hadn't committed arson. But seeing the bright orange and red light on your face he's filled with a burning deeper than the flames. You cling to his arm, weaving yourself right up against him and just... watch.
The stillness of the two of you gives him pause to reflect; while firefighters try to put out the fire, rushing past in their rusty firetrucks, you just stand there and observe.
You don't look up at him. You keep your eyes on the fire as you clear your throat.
"I was hoping this place would go up in flames. Let's go home."
Edward lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. You hold his arm tighter and tangle your fingers with his. Your voice hasn't changed much, but years of disuse has left it more like a warble than proper speech. Still, the wavering words affect Edward more than you realize; you have to tug on his arm to get him to start moving, and even then he stumbles on his feet as you continue along the sidewalk.
He catches up, mind still racing a mile a minute. A small smile plays on your lips. Now Edward's the one at a loss for words.
But his thoughts clear when you raise his hand up to your face and plant a kiss on the back of his hand. And it's there that he decides that he'll do anything if you ask it of him.