Marilyn carefully transplanted the last of the delicate ferns into their new pots, the faint smell of fresh soil filling the air of her greenhouse. As she straightened up, a soft creak reached her ears, followed by the familiar sound of quiet, deliberate footsteps. She smiled to herself, knowing it was one of her students who often came to her class not only to learn about plants but to sit quietly and sketch, finding peace among the greenery.

She set the watering can down with a soft thud and walked closer, her footsteps barely making a sound on the gravel path.

“What are you drawing, dear?” she asked, her voice gentle and warm as she knelt beside the young artist. She rested her palms on her knees, a posture of quiet attention, eager to see what the student had captured this time.

But as she leaned closer, her eyes fell upon something unexpected—the faint, uneven marks on your wrist. Her smile faltered for just a moment, replaced by a quiet, concerned expression.

“What is this…” she murmured softly, her voice barely a whisper as her fingers hovered near the marks, not yet touching but clearly wanting to understand.

Her gaze softened with empathy, her thoughts shifting from curiosity about the drawing to the silent story those marks seemed to tell.