Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Yellow Wall
Lina's world became Amaya's second shift. The hospital's official hours bled into something softer, more porous. After her scheduled sessions and rounds, Amaya would find her way back to the child and adolescent wing, to the quiet room with the pastel walls and the view of the courtyard tree.
She didn't "do therapy" in those extra hours. She simply was. She brought books with intricate illustrations and would read aloud in a gentle, steady voice, not expecting Lina to listen, but offering the sound as a kind of ambient comfort. She brought a simple wooden puzzle, and would slowly, methodically work on it herself, leaving space at the edge of the table where Lina could join if she wished. Sometimes, she just sat and colored, filling pages with vast, silent landscapes.
Lina watched. Always. Her dark eyes, no longer blank but filled with a deep, watchful intelligence, tracked Amaya's every move. She didn't speak. Words seemed to be foreign objects she had no use for, or perhaps they were too dangerous to let out. But she began to communicate in a new, fragile language of proximity.
One afternoon, as Amaya was sketching a silly, lopsided cat, Lina silently slid a bright yellow pencil towards her. A suggestion. A collaboration. Amaya's heart leapt, but she kept her face calm. She used the yellow to give the cat a single, oversized eye. Lina's lips twitched. Not a smile, but a seismic shift in the atmosphere of the room.
Another day, Amaya brought a small, plush rabbit, soft and worn from her own childhood. She didn't hand it to Lina. She placed it on the sofa. An hour later, Lina was holding it, her fingers buried in its fur, her cheek resting against its head as she stared out the window.
They developed rituals. Amaya would arrive, place her things quietly, and say, "Hello, Lina. I'm here." She would then go to the window and make a single, mundane observation about the weather or the tree. One Tuesday, as Amaya turned from the window, she found Lina already holding the plush rabbit out to her—not to take, but as an offering to hold during their silent time. It was a bridge. A tiny, threadbare bridge between their islands.
Amaya learned to read the micro-expressions on Lina's still face—the slight tightening around the eyes when a nurse's cart rattled too loudly in the hall, the almost imperceptible relaxation of her shoulders when Amaya started reading a familiar story, the way her gaze would linger on Amaya's hands when they were idle, as if the very stillness of them was a safe harbor.
She was no longer just Dr. Snow, the intern. She was Amaya. The consistent, quiet, undemanding presence in the yellow room.
The anger towards Lina's parents was a slow-burning coal in Amaya's chest. They visited, of course. Brief, efficient affairs. Her mother in couture, her father checking his watch. They spoke to the senior psychiatrists in hushed, concerned tones about "setbacks" and "timetables." They brought expensive gifts—a digital tablet, a designer sweater—which Lina ignored. They never sat on the floor. They never learned the language of silence.
One evening, Amaya had stayed later than usual. The hospital had settled into its nocturnal hum. She was packing her bag, the room lit by a single soft lamp. Lina was on the sofa, the rabbit tucked under her arm, her drawing of the walled house on the table beside her.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Lina," Amaya said softly, as she always did.
She turned to leave, her hand on the doorknob.
A small, cold hand slipped into hers.
Amaya froze. She looked down. Lina had slipped off the sofa and crossed the room without a sound. She wasn't looking at Amaya; she was staring at their joined hands, her own small fingers clinging with a desperate, fragile strength. Then, slowly, she raised her eyes.
God, I can read eyes now?
But she could. She had become fluent in Lina's silent tongue. And in those deep, dark pools, Amaya didn't see a patient's dependency. She saw a child's raw, terrifying fear of being left alone in the dark. She saw a plea that bypassed all professional boundaries and went straight to the core of something maternal and fierce within her.
Don't go. The silence is too loud when you leave.
The professional protocol screamed in her head. Maintain boundaries. Hand over to the night nurse. This is transference. This is…
This was a little girl, holding her hand.
Amaya's own eyes filled. She didn't pull away. She knelt down, bringing herself to Lina's level. "It's okay," she whispered. "I'm not going yet."
She led Lina back to the sofa. She didn't ask questions. She simply sat, and Lina curled into her side, a small, warm weight seeking shelter. Amaya wrapped an arm around her, feeling the delicate bird-bone fragility of her shoulders. She began to hum, an old, wordless lullaby her own mother had sung a lifetime ago.
Lina's body, always so tense and still, melted. A shuddering sigh escaped her, and she burrowed closer. It was a craving so profound it felt like a physical ache in the air. This simple touch, this uncomplicated holding, was a nutrient she had been starved of. It wasn't about therapy. It was about love. The most basic kind. The kind that says, You are not alone.
Amaya stayed until Lina's breathing deepened into sleep, her small fist still clutching Amaya's sweater. Gently, she extricated herself, covered the girl with a blanket, and placed the rabbit back in her arms.
She walked out of the room on unsteady legs, the ghost of that small, clinging hand burning in her own. The anger towards the parents was a white-hot flame now. How could they not see? How could they provide everything and yet withhold the one thing that mattered—the simple, present, reassuring warmth of being cherished?
Lina wasn't just a patient on her caseload. She had slipped through the cracks of professional detachment and into a sacred, unprotected space in Amaya's heart. She had become, in a way that felt both terrifying and utterly right, hers. Her family. A silent, wounded bird she had found and now could not imagine leaving alone in the cold.
And as she walked the empty, fluorescent-lit corridors towards the exit, a new, chilling realization dawned. She now had a devastatingly clear window into the kind of silent, profound need a child could harbor. A need a brilliant, clinically detached father might desperately try to meet with medications and experts, but fail to soothe with a simple, wordless lullaby.
The thought of Rihan, with his serious eyes and retreating posture, flashed before her. Another locked room. Another child whose walls might not be made of paper and crayon, but of something just as isolating.
She pushed the thought away, guiltily. Lina was her focus. Lina was her heart, lying vulnerable in a yellow dress on a hospital sofa. And for the first time since she'd made her bargain with duty five years ago, Amaya felt the terrifying, glorious sensation of being truly, unconditionally needed.