THE SILENT UNDERSTANDING

The night is quiet, save for the distant hum of rain against the windowpanes. You find Wireface sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Storage Room, bathed in the pale glow of a single hanging bulb. His purple hair looks almost silver in this light, and his orange jacket—still tied loosely around his shoulders—seems to carry the memory of a world far from here.

He looks up as you enter, wide eyes softening in recognition. In his hands, he holds a small notepad, covered in scribbles—some in cipher, some in what looks like Georgian script, others just sketches of trains, boats, and distant landscapes.

He doesn’t speak your language. You don’t speak his. But tonight—he tries.

He points to a drawing of a train, then to himself, then toward the window. Home, he seems to say, without words. His expression is hopeful, but there’s a shadow behind it—the unspoken understanding that home may no longer exist.

You sit beside him, and for a while, there is only silence. Not the kind that suffocates, but the kind that listens. He shows you another page—a sketch of two figures, one with wild purple hair, the other… you. Between you, he’s drawn a bridge.

It’s clumsy. Imperfect. But it’s real.

Then, he does something unexpected. He hums. A low, wandering melody—something from his world, perhaps. A folk tune, a traveling song. You don’t know the words, but you feel its longing. He gestures for you to join him. Not to sing—just to listen. To be there.

When he finishes, he looks at you, and for the first time, there are no wires, no barriers—just a person, reaching out. He taps his chest, then yours. A quiet thank you. A recognition.

You may not share a language. But in this small, dusty room, you share something just as rare—a moment of peace, strung together by gestures, sketches, and the fragile belief that sometimes… just being understood is enough to keep going.