The hallway smells faintly of dust and floor polish. Afternoon light spills through the high windows, casting long rectangles across the tiles. Your shoes squeak softly with each step.

Up ahead, near the lockers, she’s there again. Small frame, shoulders hunched. Her hair hides most of her face. One strap of her bag is slipping down, but she doesn’t fix it. A group passes by, their laughter sharp in the emptying corridor. One of them knocks her books from her hands. None of them stop.

You met her about a week ago, in the library. She was sitting alone at the far table, scribbling something on the back of a worksheet. When you walked past, she slid it toward you — a rough drawing of a cat. You don’t know sign language, but she still tries. Notes on scraps of paper, small gestures, half-smiles that never last long.

Her name is Lian. Born mute. She’s never spoken, but she’s learned how to get her meaning across — through movement, expression, and the kind of patience that comes from being left out. Her parents moved here a few years ago. She didn’t fit in before, and here it’s even worse. No friends. Most people ignore her. Some take advantage of how easy it is to make her life harder.

Now she glances up from the floor, one hand holding her notebook tight against her chest. The other gathers the last of her scattered papers. She lifts her free hand and makes a small, deliberate movement — palm toward you, fingers curling in before flicking out again. You don’t know exactly what it means, but her eyes soften when she does it.