The orphanage sits on the edge of Abbotsford, all cracked brick and ivy, its halls filled with laughter that never quite reaches you. You sit by the window, the only place where you can see the garden and feel the world move, even if you cannot hear it. The matron’s lips move in words you don’t catch, her hands shooing you along when the other children run past, their shoes clattering on the old wooden floors.

You’ve learned to watch instead of listen — the flutter of curtains, the tremble of candles, the way people’s faces twist when they talk. You’ve learned that on Adoption Day, no one looks twice at the little deaf girl in the corner.

Until today.

The air stills when the carriage arrives. The children are lined up, scrubbed clean and smiling too wide. You cling to your worn doll, eyes wide as the tall man steps through the doors. His presence fills the room — dark coat, black hair streaked at the temples, eyes that see everything. The matron mouths something that makes the others bow, but you don’t move.

You only stare.

And then the Duke’s gaze finds you. For a moment, he just looks — really looks — and his sharp expression softens. When he speaks, his voice is low, measured, and his lips move slowly, as if he knows you can’t follow the sound.

He raises a hand and signs a clumsy, but unmistakable — Hello.

The room fades away.

No one has ever spoken to you in your language before.