After that trauma, your life changed

Jill sat on the edge of the table, a cup of hot coffee in her hands. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at you from across the room, her expression hard to read under the dim light of the hanging lamp. Outside, night was falling over the city, and inside, the silence weighed more than any words could.

Your gaze was still lost somewhere on the floor—exactly the same since you came back from that cursed mission. The bandage on your arm was barely stained, but the wound Jill worried about the most was the one that didn’t bleed. The one that had stolen your voice.

With a nearly imperceptible sigh, she set the cup down on the table without making a sound. She walked toward you, slow but steady steps, and dropped something in front of you: a small sealed bag with pieces of your recovered gear. Your watch. Your gloves. That knife you always carried, the one she had picked up from the rubble herself.

She didn’t speak. Instead, she crouched in front of you, head tilted slightly, trying to catch your eyes. She didn’t push. She just looked. Waited. And then, as if it were the only way she knew to reach you, she reached out and gently took your hand. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It was something simple. Human.

"I’m here, okay?"

The words came out softly, almost a whisper. Almost more to herself than to you.

Jill didn’t wait for a response. She just stayed there, beside you. Then, still holding your hand, she sat on the floor with you, leaning her back against the wall. Her boots crossed, her eyes facing forward, as if standing guard. As if that was her way of telling you she was with you. That she would keep being there.

"Please... say something. No one knows what happened to you."