CHAPTER THREE—SILENT UNDERSTANDING.

Arina’s POV

The morning sunlight streamed softly through my window, brightening the neat corners of my room.

I stretched to ease the stiffness in my shoulders from the long day before.

Kael had been quiet, careful, and incredibly observant, yet the day hadn’t felt entirely bleak.

There were small victories—subtle acknowledgements, a whispered “yes,” a silent acceptance of my presence.

I quickly got dressed, tucking in my clothes neatly, and prepared for another day.

Today, I reminded myself, I needed to be patient, gentle, and… creative.

As I descended the grand staircase, I noticed Kael in the living room, sitting in his usual spot, his gaze fixed on a puzzle laid out before him.

I approached slowly, trying not to startle him.

“Good morning, Kael,” I said softly.

He didn’t look up right away. When he finally did, our eyes met briefly before he returned his focus to the puzzle.

I smiled gently, determined not to let his silence get to me.

“Would you like some breakfast?” I asked.

“I’ve made your favourite—pancakes with a little honey on top.”

He paused for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

No words, no sounds, just a nod. I felt the significance of that small gesture—it was small, but it meant a lot.

While we were eating, I realised the extremely thorough manner he set his plate, the manner in which he piled up pancakes neatly, and the exact placement of the utensils.

Every gesture was intentional, he was in full control.

It dawned on me that his silence was not just that he was shy or that he was stubborn; it was his method of dealing with the world, making sure that it stayed in his predictable and safe realm.

“Kael, would you like to tell me how your puzzle is going?” I asked gently, pointing to the scattered pieces.

The boy’s glance was first toward the puzzle, then back at me.

After a moment of silence, he uttered a single word: “Hard.”

“Hard?” I echoed quietly. “Well… that just means it’s difficult. And difficult things can be fun, can’t they?”

He did not answer, but he let me come to his side.

He was very attentive and careful with his work.

I was very gentle with my help, giving hints and telling him of the right pieces but also making sure that he had his own space.

Whenever I was wrong, he would quickly show me without a word that my spot was incorrect.

I did not find it annoying at all—he was talking to me in his own way, the tiny bridge between us was there.

In the middle of the afternoon, I proposed that we take a short walk in the garden.

Kael followed silently, his movements precise, but not resistant.

I was walking not too far from him, giving him the freedom to walk where he wanted but at the same time being close enough to see how he was doing.

The garden was very quiet, the air was full of the scent of the flowers, and the soft bird's singing was the nice music to go with our steps.

I did my best to draw him into a conversation without being too insistent.

“Kael, the roses are blooming beautifully today,” I said softly. “Do you like them?”

He inspected a pale pink bloom for quite a while and then in a low voice that was more like a murmur than a speech, “Nice” he said.

I was happy and kept my tone low. “Yes… They are. I’m glad you noticed.”

This scene was quite unlike the others—it was fragile just like holding glass in your hand.

It depended on your patience, your gentleness and a fine balance between encouragement and giving space.

I could read Kael’s mind from his actions. He was opening up, but only on his terms.

Following our walk, we came back indoors. I had planned a small activity with building blocks to arouse creativity and maybe get a word or two from the boy.

Kael was quiet, but he started building characters silently, and his actions were very precise and he seemed quite focused.

I came up with him, but I was very careful not to dominate the scene.

“Kael, may I try?” I asked, holding a block.

He didn’t say anything but pointed toward an empty spot in the building, silently asking me to put the block there.

It was a tiny gesture, almost unnoticeable, but it made me feel like it was a very important one.

This was the first time I understood that people don’t always have to talk to communicate.

Trust, it seems, can be developed through gestures, doing, and waiting.

We also had a quiet lunch.

Kael was eating his food step by step, almost as if he was doing it by machine, but he was also observing me in very quiet ways.

He watched my movements very closely while I was preparing his plate almost as if he was making a note of my actions in his mind.

I kept telling myself that these observations should not be taken as criticisms but that they were his way of getting to know me and deciding whether I was trustworthy or not.

"Kael, can I read to you again after lunch?" I asked softly.

He didn’t reply right away, but he gave me a very faint confirmation when I showed him the book.

Nodding of the head, just a bit, hardly visible, but it was enough to indicate agreement.

The rest of the day, we were seated on the floor, with an open book in between us.

I was reading in a low, steady voice, slowly going through the story.

Kael didn’t say a word, but he was very much into the story and from time to time, he was pointing at the letters with his fingers.

I saw that he was getting closer to me a bit, which was a very slight and almost unnoticed gesture showing that he was comfortable with me.

We were later engaged in a silent game of matching cards, during which I started to grasp Kael’s behaviour and his communication methods.

His quietness was not a sign of stubbornness but a way through which he exercised control over himself.

He was very aware of every step, see, or even thought of us.

Therefore, I, in turn, had to be very careful and deliberative in my actions, letting him feel that I acknowledge his limits while at the same time providing safe encouragement for him to take part in the activity.

When night came, Kael’s tiredness was also becoming more and more apparent.

Throughout the time he was kept busy, my arms were heavily worked while my voice, which I was forced to keep at a low level, also began to lose its strength.

Yet when I was giving him his bedtime tuck-in, a moment of quiet success came over me.

He was not talking or smiling but allowed me to be with him for a while, his shoulder was my hand’s resting place.

That small touch, unacknowledged but accepted, felt like a victory.

I took a strand of hair from his forehead and whispered, "Goodnight, Kael."

Kael didn’t open his eyes and his hand was still.

Silence, which used to be very scary, has turned into a subtle way of trust.

I came to my room and dropped onto the bed after leaving his room.

Today was very tiring, of course, but it was also very rewarding.

Kael’s silence is not the same as a wall; it is like a gate that is opening slowly, letting small lights of understanding and connection peek through.

The thought of father and Ayla with their faces flashed across my mind and I felt as if a quiet but firm determination had sunk into my chest.

I was here for them, and I was here for Kael.

His not speaking is not pushing me away but rather giving me a lesson in patience, sensitivity, and proving that love can go beyond talking.

When the night came over the estate, I made a small promise to myself in a whisper: I would be patient. I would observe, listen, and respect Kael’s world.

I would slowly and gently get his trust and, maybe later, he would let me be more than

just a silent observer in his life.

Because talking was not the only way through which people could connect.

Some relationships were built in silence, through looking, and the mutual understanding that even though the two hearts have different languages, they can still recognise each other.