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It was odd for him to see her so still. So silent.
In his memories of their childhood, she was always moving — a free spirit with so much to say and do in the world.
But right now, she was more like a pause. A long, uncomfortable silence that sat in the corner, unresponsive. Like her soul had gone so far away that her body was just a beautiful, empty vessel.
She wasn’t here, and Ekko knew it.
So he let it be.
He went through the day as if she wasn’t there at all. As if her body wasn’t sitting on the bed, looking out the window where he had left her the night before.
He worked, had meetings, even napped a few hours by her side — but she didn’t come back. He thought that maybe it wasn’t for lack of trying, but rather for lack of meaning.
So, when the day turned into days, he started to move her. To feed her. Even to bathe her. Just to keep her comfortable. To keep her alive.
He couldn’t let her die. Never.
A week went by, and she started to look at him. She didn’t say a word, but at least she acknowledged him. And for Ekko, that was enough. So he kept moving her.
One afternoon, he sat her on a comfy bench on his little balcony, so the sun could kiss her skin. And she took his hand. She was silent, and her grip was weak — but that was all he needed to stay.
When weeks turned into months, she started to move by herself. At first, just eating, brushing her now-short hair, or hugging him softly at night before sleep. Slowly but surely, she began to walk on the balcony, never wanting to leave the room. And one week, she began to trinket again.
But she only bathed and slept if it was with him.
He tried to spend as little time outside their room as possible. Sometimes it was already dark when he came back, but she was always there, waiting for him. She didn’t say it — she didn’t say anything — but he knew she needed him. And he knew that she knew he needed her too.
They lay in bed, just looking at each other until sleep came.
Sometimes, he’d pass out immediately, burned out by the day. She would pull his head to her chest and, in the silence of the night, hum a song for him. Other times, he would whisper sweet promises into her sleep, so she could dream of better days — of a softer future.
Most of the time, he would kiss her temple and hold her until her breath became calm and steady.
And so, the days passed, wrapped in a silence that felt more comfortable.
So when she spoke again, it felt just as strange as her first silence.
“She was my baby…”
The words were merely a whisper, but didn't escape his ears. He brushes the bangs from her face, and looks for her eyes for more. Just to find tears.
“Isha”
she added, sobbing.
These were her only words in months, and after that, the silence returned. He didn’t push. He didn’t need to. They communicated just fine without words. He was comforted at least by the fact that she let him take care of her — let him love her, even if she didn’t know it.
And so, time passed. She began leaving the room in the mornings, looking for the sun. In the afternoons, she trinketed by his side. And at night, she returned for the warmth of his arms.
Her hair grew back a little, just below her shoulders. Her skin tanned slightly. Even her face became fuller. But her eyes still looked sad, and her mouth still screamed in silence.
One night, she lay in his arms while he read a little before sleep took him. He muttered softly, pressing a kiss to her head:
“I love you.”
She didn’t say it back. But she hugged him and buried her face in his neck, leaving a soft kiss there. And for him, that was more than enough.
Now, the days were softer — filled with hugs and kisses. Even little laughs passed between them.
He had grown used to her silence, though he still missed her voice. But he waited, because time was something he understood. And he had learned to understand Jinx, too.
And he was right. Because time was all she needed.
A year later, she spoke.
As if she had never stopped.
She talked. She laughed. She sang. She cried.
And she told him everything — about her dad, Sevika, Vi.
And Isha.
Her baby.
It would be a lie to say it didn’t hurt him. That it didn’t devastate him. Because when she cried for the girl, calling her name like a prayer lost on the ears of an ungrateful god, his soul shattered beyond repair.
She cried like the day she lost her. And he only knew how to give her the one thing he could: time.
And time moved forward — and, in a way, so did they.
He grew a little taller. A little broader. His hair a bit longer. She kept hers short.
The room became a house.
And they were no longer just two, but three — with a fourth on the way.
She still cried sometimes. Still went quiet for days.
But she always came back — to laugh, to sing, to tell him she loved him.
To tell their children that she loved them.
And he thanks time, for giving her back to him.