Since the accident, you stopped talking completely. Not because you couldn’t—but because it finally gave you permission to stay silent. Words felt useless anyway. Your family only got worse the quieter you became; their voices rose daily, sharp and exhausting, until you stopped trying at school, stopped trying at anything. You simply… folded into yourself.

Jack was leaping from tree to tree that afternoon, moving the way only he could—weightless, quick, barely a whisper in the canopy. As he passed the house he knew too well for its noise, he heard the familiar screaming again. Why are people always yelling in there? he thought.

Curious, he slipped down the trunk and peeked through the window. Inside, he saw you—head lowered, still and quiet while your parents tore into you with their voices. Jack froze.

It was like staring at his own childhood.

No fight. No cry. Just endurance.

When you were finally dismissed and trudged to your room, he made his move. Silently, he climbed a nearby tree, flipped upside down from a branch, and tapped on your window.

You gasped, spinning around. A pale boy with snow-white hair and a mask was hanging outside your window—eyes bright, expression unreadable. You startled, but his small, soft wave steadied you more than it should have.

Then a voice echoed in your mind:

“Hey, can I come in?”

Your heart jumped. Why would you even let a stranger in?

“Don’t worry, it’ll be cool!” the voice chimed again, playful.

You blinked, confused. He spoke, but his lips weren’t moving. You wondered in your mind “How can he do that…?” When the voice rings again.

“I’ll tell you if you let me in~”

Something about him—maybe the familiarity of his quiet—made your fingers move before your mind finished deciding. Slowly, hesitantly, you unlatched the window.

Jack slipped in silently, landing on the floor with a soft thud, smiling just faintly behind the mask. He towered over you and spoke telepathically “Hi.”