THE BOY WHO DOESN'T SPEAK

SERENA

I find myself standing outside Leo's door the next morning, my hand hovering over the handle like I'm about to open a cage. The penthouse is silent around me, the city humming faintly far below, and I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. I've spent the night tossing and turning in my tiny room, the drawings of the faceless woman and the crashed car burned into my memory, and now I'm here, about to meet the boy who created them. I knock softly, gently, three quiet taps that barely disturb the stillness. When there's no response, I push the door open and step inside.

The room is surprisingly simple for a child who lives in a penthouse worth more than most people earn in a lifetime. There's a bed with plain white sheets, a dresser with no photographs on top, a small desk covered in crayons and paper. The walls are bare, no posters, no toys scattered across the floor, no evidence that a child actually lives here. It looks like a room that's been stripped of everything that makes it a child's space, like the very life has been sucked out of it, leaving only the hollow shell behind. And there, in the center of the bed, sits Leo. He is exactly where I saw him yesterday, his knees drawn up to his chest, his back against the headboard, his dark hair falling across his face like a curtain he's hiding behind. He's staring at the wall, his eyes unfocused, his expression blank and distant. He looks like a small statue, frozen in place, unable to move or speak or feel.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure how to approach a child who seems so unreachable. Then I cross the room and lower myself to the floor beside his bed. I don't sit on the bed with him, don't invade his space, don't force myself into his world. Instead, I settle cross-legged on the carpet and wait, letting the silence stretch between us. I've learned that you can't force connection with a child who's been through trauma. You have to be patient, to let them come to you in their own time. So I sit there, my hands resting loosely in my lap, my breathing slow and even, and I wait.

On the desk, I see his crayons scattered across the surface. They're not organized by color the way most children would arrange them, not grouped in rainbow order or separated into warm and cool tones. Instead, they're lined up by size—the shortest on the left, the tallest on the right, each one precisely spaced from the next, like soldiers standing at attention. It's odd, specific, human, and I feel a pang of sadness at the sight. This is a child trying to impose order on a world that's been turned upside down, trying to control the one thing he can in a life that's spiraled out of control. He's lost his parents, lost his voice, lost his sense of safety, and this is how he copes.

I reach out slowly, giving Leo plenty of time to see my hand moving, plenty of time to pull away if he wants to. I pick up a green crayon from the middle of the row, feeling its waxy smoothness against my fingers. I find a blank piece of paper on the floor, smoothing it against my knee, and I begin to draw. I don't say anything, don't explain what I'm doing. I just let the crayon move across the paper, sketching the outline of a tiny stick figure—a girl, I suppose, with a messy bun on top of her head. Then I draw a larger stick figure beside her, taller and broader, with long hair and a gentle smile. And above them both, I draw an umbrella, curved and protective, shielding them from the rain that I've drawn falling around them. The larger figure is holding the umbrella over the smaller one, protecting her, keeping her safe.

Leo watches me. I can feel his gaze on my hands, on the paper, even though he hasn't moved a muscle. His eyes follow the crayon as I add details to the drawing, shading in the umbrella with careful strokes, adding a smile to the smaller figure's face, giving the larger figure a warm and steady gaze. He doesn't speak, but he's present, and that's more than I could have hoped for.

"This is you," I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper, pointing to the smaller figure. "And this is me." I point to the larger figure holding the umbrella. "I'm going to keep you safe, Leo. I promise. I'm going to be your umbrella."

He doesn't respond, doesn't speak, doesn't even blink. But he doesn't look away either. For a long moment, we just sit there, the silence between us feeling less heavy than before, like something has shifted, like a door has cracked open just a sliver. Then, slowly, Leo reaches for a crayon—a blue one, the second shortest in his row—and picks up a piece of paper. He begins to draw, his movements slow and deliberate, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. I watch him work, not wanting to interrupt, not wanting to break whatever spell has settled over us.

When he's finished, he slides the paper toward me across the floor. I look down at it, and my heart clenches in my chest. It's a house—simple, childlike, with a peaked roof and a chimney with smoke curling from it. But there's no door. Just a blank space where a door should be, an empty gap that feels like a wound. And inside the windows, he's drawn a family—two adults and a child, holding hands—but their faces are blank, featureless, empty circles where their eyes and mouths and noses should be. They're just outlines, shells, hollow and empty.

I look up at Leo, at his blank expression, at the way his hands are trembling slightly against the paper. "This is beautiful," I say, my voice steady despite the emotion threatening to choke me. "Thank you for showing me. It's really special, Leo."

He doesn't respond. But I see something flicker in his eyes, something small and fragile, like the faintest glimmer of trust. I want to reach out, to take his hand, to tell him everything is going to be okay. But I know better. I know that trust is earned, not demanded. So I just sit there, holding his drawing carefully, letting him see that I value what he's given me.

I look down at the drawing again, at the house with no door, at the family with no faces, and I feel a certainty settle deep in my bones. This isn't just grief. This isn't just trauma. Something is being hidden from him, from everyone. And I don't know what it is, but I'm going to find out.

I lift my gaze, and my eyes catch a movement in the doorway. Alexander is standing there, half-hidden in the shadows of the hallway, watching us. His expression is unreadable, but I see something in his posture, a tension that wasn't there before. He's been observing this moment from the hallway, unseen by me until now. He's been watching me with his nephew, assessing me, testing me. Our eyes meet, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or curiosity. I hold his gaze for a beat longer than I should, feeling the weight of his attention like a physical presence. Then I look back down at Leo's drawing, the house with no door, the family with no faces.

What are you trying to tell me, sweet boy? I think. What are you trying to say?