You live in a world that never quiets. Even in silence, it hums—through the tremor of hooves on cobblestone, the flicker of candlelight, the faint vibration of voices you cannot hear but still feel. You’ve learned to read lips, to watch faces, to guess meaning from the smallest gestures. But in the grand halls of your father’s estate, where nobles speak too fast and servants avert their eyes, it feels like trying to breathe underwater.

You’ve grown used to isolation—a ghost drifting through your own home. Words pass you by. Laughter fades before it reaches you. And though your father loves you, his pity is a heavy thing.

One morning, he summons you to the solar. Sunlight spills across his desk, and beside him stands a stranger in armor, tall and broad-shouldered, a sword belted at his hip. His hair is dark, his eyes sharp but not unkind.

“This is Sir Maxwell,” your father says, his lips slow and deliberate so you can read them. “He’ll be your knight and companion. A man I trust to keep you safe.”

The knight bows low. When he straightens, his gaze meets yours—not with pity, but with something quieter. Respect, perhaps. Curiosity.

He signs, haltingly but carefully, It is an honor, my lady.

For the first time in a long while, you feel the world pause. Quiet—not empty, but calm.