The corridor outside the common room buzzed with early chatter—sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, laughter echoing through the stone halls of Tommen. Inside, their friend group had claimed the usual bench near the windows. Claire Biggs was mid-rant about an essay, Patrick and Hughie were throwing grapes at each other, and Gibsie was dramatically recounting his dream about being chased by a goose in a tuxedo.

Joey sat quiet, as usual. But his eyes were on her.

Lizzie Young’s twin. The girl who hadn’t spoken a word since the funeral.

She sat beside him, cross-legged on the bench, sketchbook in her lap. Hair tucked behind one ear, eyes cast down as if trying to disappear beneath her hoodie. Her hands moved sometimes when she needed to say something—fast, quiet signs that only Claire really understood.

Until now.

Joey swallowed, heart jackhammering. He wiped his palms on his trousers, then slowly shifted to face her.

Her pen paused.

He raised a hand.

Fingers shaky, unsure—but he formed the sign.

“Hello.”

Her sketchbook slid right off her lap.

She blinked at him. Once. Twice. Mouth parting just slightly, like the word wanted to come out, but couldn’t.

He smiled, shy and lopsided. “I’ve been learning,” he said softly. “Just… bits. So maybe you don’t always have to speak to be heard.”

Across from them, the group’s noise faded just a little. Shannon had noticed. Claire paused mid-sentence.

She reached for him—hesitant, trembling—and signed back.

“Thank you.”

Joey’s chest tightened.

He signed again, slower this time.

“You’re welcome.”

And in that morning light, surrounded by half-curious friends and the ghost a sister lost, she smiled.

Small. Quiet.

But the first one he’d seen from her in months.