The dining hall is louder than the room was.
Metal trays clatter against the long tables, sharp and uneven. Chairs scrape. Someone cries openly at the far end—loud, hiccupping sobs that aren't hushed or comforted. No one turns toward it for long. Adults move through the noise with clipped efficiency, arms full, eyes already on whatever comes next. Like this is a place you pass through, not one you stay.
They are seated apart this time.
Not far. Just enough that the space between them has shape. Meaning.
Ira sits with her tray pulled close to her body, elbows tucked in as if the food might spill if she gives it room. She eats slowly, even though hunger sits heavy and sharp in her stomach. Rice first. Then the vegetables she doesn't like—soft, overcooked, bitter—because leaving them untouched feels like inviting attention. Like proof she's difficult.
Across the room, the boy eats without lifting his head.
His posture doesn't change. Back slightly curved, shoulders narrow. He brings the fork to his mouth in steady, identical motions, eyes fixed on the tray as if it's a set of instructions he has to follow exactly.
Someone laughs too loudly behind him.
The sound snaps through the air. He flinches before he can stop himself—just a fraction of a second. His fork freezes halfway to his mouth. Muscles tight, breath caught. He waits. Counts. One. Two.
Nothing follows.
He resumes eating as if the interruption never happened, the movement seamless enough that most people wouldn't notice.
Ira does.
Her fork pauses. She presses her lips together, then lowers her gaze to her tray like she's been caught staring.
A woman passes her table and taps the edge of Ira's plate with one finger. Not hard.
Not gentle.
"Finish."
"I will," Ira says, too quickly. The words tumble out before she can shape them. Her back straightens instinctively.
The woman is already gone.
Ira exhales, slow and careful. Her hands shake once—just once—then steady. She curls her fingers around the fork until she can feel it again.
She glances across the room.
The boy has noticed the tap. Not the words. The gesture. His eyes are on her now, sharp and focused, asking without asking.
She nods. Small. Controlled. I'm fine.
He looks back to his food.
A child at Ira's table leans toward her, elbow sliding across the wood. "Why doesn't he talk?" the girl whispers, nodding toward the boy.
Ira stiffens. The question lands too close, like it might bruise something.
"I don't know," she says, keeping her voice even. Not unkind. "Maybe he doesn't need to."
The girl shrugs, already bored. "That's weird."
Ira doesn't respond.
Her appetite fades, hollowing out into something duller. She pushes her tray away an inch, then pulls it back. Forces herself to finish the vegetables anyway. The bitterness lingers longer than it should.
Across the room, the boy finishes last. He always does.
He stacks his tray neatly, aligning the spoon with the fork, edge to edge. He waits, standing beside the table, for permission that doesn't come.
When he finally moves, Ira stands too.
Not because anyone tells her to. Because she decides to.
They fall into step in the corridor without planning it. The noise from the hall thins behind them, swallowed by the narrower space. Their shoes echo differently here. Sharper. Louder.
She speaks without looking at him. "They think you're strange."
He shrugs. A minimal movement, barely there. "They stop watching sooner."
She considers that as they walk. "They watch me more when I talk."
"You talk anyway."
"I have to," she says. Then, quieter, like admitting something to herself, "Or I feel like I disappear."
They stop at a corner where a notice board blocks the view ahead. Voices drift from the other side. An adult. Another child. Too close. Too soon.
He raises a hand—not touching her, just lifted between them. A signal.
Stop.
She stops.
They wait. Their breathing slows without discussion. He listens with his whole body, head tilted slightly, attention pulled tight like a thread. As if sound might reach inside him and leave marks.
The voices pass. Footsteps fade.
He lowers his hand.
She looks at it for a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall back to his side.
"That thing you said," she murmurs as they start moving again. "About guessing."
He nods once.
"I think," she says slowly, choosing each word like it matters, "that sometimes talking makes it worse. And sometimes not talking makes it worse."
"Yes," he says.
"So maybe," she continues, "the rule isn't about talking or silence."
He turns his head and looks at her fully this time.
"It's about timing," he says.
She smiles. Just a little. Like the thought settles somewhere it belongs.
At the door to the sleeping area, an adult gestures them apart. Opposite sides. Separate rows. Separate beds.
Ira hesitates. The familiar pull in her chest tightens, sharp and unwelcome.
He notices. Doesn't comment.
As they part, she says softly, "If I talk too much tomorrow—"
"I'll listen," he says, interrupting her. Not sharp. Certain.
She blinks.
"And if I don't," she adds.
"I'll stay," he replies.
They don't say anything else.
That night, lying on her bed, Ira stares at the ceiling. The hum of the building wraps around the room the same way it did before—steady, mechanical, alive.
She doesn't feel erased.
Across the room—far enough not to be obvious, close enough to matter—the boy lies awake too.
For the first time since arriving, he lets himself sleep without watching the door.