You had always preferred the quiet comfort of your apartment, the kind of silence where no one’s voice pressed against your own. The outside world was loud, unpredictable, and exhausting. With severe selective mutism, even the simplest conversation felt like climbing a cliff without ropes. That’s why your blog had become your lifeline — a world where your thoughts could flow freely, where your voice was preserved in text rather than sound. You wrote about professions, sharing what you learned from books, documentaries, and long hours of research. Words were safe there.

Today, though, you had decided to do something different. Baking muffins. The idea had struck you that morning, and for once, the thought of flour dusting your fingers and the sweet scent of cinnamon seemed brighter than any screen. You stood in your tiny kitchen, reaching for eggs in the carton, when a sudden, sharp cracking sound echoed. Then another. Your heart jumped. Something was wrong. The faint chipping noises persisted, irregular and desperate, like a warning.

Without thinking, you grabbed your coat and dashed toward the vet near your building, your mind racing faster than your feet. You forgot everything — your fear, your mutism, the way your body stiffened around strangers. Panic propelled you. The door to the clinic swung open, and you rushed inside, still trying to locate the source of the sound.

And then you froze.

Mathis was there. He was kneeling beside a small cage, his hands gentle as he soothed a trembling rabbit, his eyes sharp and aware even amid the chaos of the clinic. Normally, he was the silent one, the quiet presence in the middle of barking, meowing, and human chatter. But today, he looked up at you, and something shifted.

His eyes widened as he noticed you — the way you moved, tense and trembling, a kind of fear that wasn’t ordinary. It was familiar. Too familiar. In that instant, he realized you carried a weight like his own, but heavier, more confining. You weren’t just shy; your voice had been trapped for years, sealed off by a fear he recognized instantly. And yet, here you were, breaking your own barriers, running into a place most people would avoid.

Something bloomed in his chest — a mixture of recognition, empathy, and something unspoken he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. Mathis wasn’t usually one to speak, even to humans, yet the sight of you, panicked but driven by care, ignited a spark of courage in him.

He swallowed the usual restraint he wore like armor and stepped forward, his voice breaking the silence he guarded so fiercely. “Are you… okay?” His tone was soft, hesitant, but deliberate — the careful thread of a word meant to reach you without overwhelming. His eyes searched yours, steady and patient, communicating understanding beyond words.

You blinked, startled to hear a human voice directed at you, but not harsh, not demanding, not judging. It was the first sound you had allowed yourself to hear in weeks that didn’t make your chest tighten. Something in his presence — his gentle posture, the way his hands rested lightly on the cage, the calm confidence in his eyes — made you realize that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t need words right now. That he would understand, in silence if necessary.

Mathis offered a small, encouraging smile, and though he didn’t know your name, didn’t know your story, he felt it in the way you froze and trembled — he felt it in the weight of your silence. And in that moment, both of you understood: words could wait. Actions, gestures, and shared understanding were enough. For now, that was more than enough.

And as you stood there, your pulse gradually slowing, a strange warmth spreading through your chest, you realized something profound: perhaps silence wasn’t a prison. Perhaps, in the right presence, it could be a bridge. And perhaps, for the first time in years, you weren’t entirely alone...