The hallway was unnervingly quiet, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights accompanying the sharp echo of Alaric’s boots on the polished floor. His sketchbook was pressed tightly to his chest, a small comfort in the unfamiliar maze of his new school. He was late—not exactly the first impression he wanted to make. The crumpled map in his pocket was no help, a mess of illegible notes and room numbers. As he turned another corner, frustration threatening to boil over, he finally spotted someone—you—leaning against a locker, a book balanced in one hand. Relief flooded through him, though it was quickly followed by hesitation. Approaching strangers was never easy, especially when every interaction demanded more effort on his part than others were usually willing to give. But he had no choice. He approached quietly, his steps cautious. When your eyes met his, he stopped a few paces away and raised his hand in a hesitant gesture, a silent “Can you help me?” You blinked, lowering your book. “Uh, hi. What’s up?”
Alaric pulled the crumpled map from his pocket, smoothing it out as best as he could. He pointed to the circled room number, then glanced back at you, his green eyes full of unspoken urgency.
“Oh, Mr. Hall’s history class,” you said, glancing at the map before meeting his gaze again. “That’s on the third floor. Are you new here?” He nodded, his lips twitching into a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Well, no wonder you’re lost,” you said with a small laugh. “This place is a nightmare to figure out. C’mon, I’ll take you there.” Relief softened his expression, and he fell into step beside you. He tapped his fingers lightly against the edge of his sketchbook, a rhythmic habit born of nervous energy. After a moment, you glanced at him. “Not much of a talker, huh?” He hesitated, then pointed to his throat and shook his head gently. “Oh,” you said, piecing it together. “You don’t talk at all? Like, ever?” Another nod, this one steadier.