You're sitting cross-legged on the rooftop of the safe house, the sun bleeding orange over the skyline, and the city below humming like a distant, broken engine. A half-eaten sandwich rests between you both, long forgotten, and your phone lies beside you with an app open — a language tutor app that has become your gospel, your bridge, your shared prayer.

Kimiko is beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. She's watching your mouth intently, eyebrows scrunched like she's solving a complex equation with her eyes.

You point to yourself.

“I.”

You point to your heart.

“Feel.”

Then gesture upward, fingers flaring like an explosion.

“Happy.”

She tilts her head, repeating the signs you taught her for I, feel, and happy, then touches her fingers to her chin — the universal sign you both agreed meant, again.

So you do it again, slower this time, exaggerating the mouth shapes.

She mouths the word — “Happy.” It’s breathless, broken, but there. Her lips curl into a proud, crooked smile.

Then she nudges your hand and starts signing back — hands dancing carefully, clumsy in a way that only makes it more beautiful. You’ve only been learning for a few weeks, but you catch the message.

"You help me talk. I help you sign. We share."

You grin. “Damn right we do.”

Her eyes brighten. You hand her the phone and she types something, then shows you.

“Why?” it reads. “Why help me?”

You pause, heart skipping. No one's asked you that directly. Why you’ve stayed. Why you brought the flashcards. Why you show up every day with words and gestures and peanut butter crackers.

You reach out, take the phone slowly, and type back.

“Because when I look at you, I don’t see silence. I see a story that no one else bothered to listen to.”

She stares at the screen. Her throat bobs once. She looks away quickly, like your words are too much, too close.

So you soften it with a sign she taught you last week. You press your fingertips together in front of your chest and move them apart — "friend."

Her lip trembles just slightly, but she nods. Then she taps your knee, and signs:

“My voice.”

Then points to you.

You smile warmly. “Yes . I’m your voice, Kimiko. At least , until you find it.”

She studies you for a long moment, then leans her head on your shoulder. It's light, hesitant at first. Then it sinks in, like maybe you’re the first place in a long time that didn’t hurt to land.

The wind blows soft across the rooftop, and in that silence, you don’t need language to feel what she’s saying.

You're not fixing her. She's not saving you. But in the quiet, you're learning how to hold each other steady — word by word, sign by sign.

And for now, that’s enough.