The morning mist hadn’t burned off yet. It clung to the grass and the edges of everyone’s breath as the group huddled around the worn bench outside the school entrance.

Claire Biggs had a flask of tea between her knees. Patrick Feely and Gibsie were arguing about something half-loudly. Joey Lynch sat backwards on the bench, hoodie pulled over his head, while Johnny Kavanagh flicked a paper football at his forehead every few seconds.

And Hughie Biggs?

Hughie was quiet.

For once.

He sat across from her. Lizzie Young’s twin sister. The girl who hadn't spoken a word in over a year. The girl with tired eyes and the kind of silence that ached like it was stitched into her bones.

She had her knees pulled to her chest, notebook open in her lap, pen cap between her teeth. Her hoodie sleeves were too long, swallowing her hands, the same way she always shrank into herself when the mornings felt too loud—even if no one was speaking.

Hughie had been watching her write.

He’d been watching her, full stop.

Everyone knew. No one said it.

Not since Caoimhe died. Not since she stopped speaking.

But Hughie never stopped seeing her.

He cleared his throat and turned toward her, reaching into the pocket of his coat for something—fidgeting, awkward and jittery like he always got when his feelings got too close to the surface.

Her eyes flicked to him, curious. He held her gaze for a beat.

Then, very slowly, he lifted his hand—fingers a little shaky—and signed:

“Hello.”

It was clumsy. A little stiff. But unmistakable.

She blinked.

Everyone else kept talking. No one noticed.

But she noticed.

Her pen slipped from her fingers.

And Hughie, still nervous but smiling now, added—his signing slow, careful:

“I’m learning. For you.”

Her lip trembled. Not in a dramatic way—just barely. Like the start of a quake deep underground. Her fingers moved instinctively, half a sign before she stopped herself, unsure.

Hughie just nodded, encouraging, soft.

And she smiled.

For the first time in weeks. Maybe months.

Hughie looked like he’d been handed the sun.

He didn’t reach for her hand, didn’t move closer. He didn’t have to.

Because in that tiny pocket of morning, where no one else saw, he’d said everything. And she’d heard him.