Her voice in my bones

Chapter 56: Chapter57 HE said my name like it wasn't broken



He was standing in the visitor's line.

Holding a paper with my name on it.

My full name.

Not the one the doctors used.

The one I abandoned when I stopped feeling like a person.

---

He looked nervous.

But not afraid.

Like someone who knew he was trespassing,

but was willing to be kicked out for it.

---

I recognized him before I remembered him.

His eyes were older.

But the way he stood?

Same.

Like he carried something important in his chest and didn't trust the world enough to let it fall out.

---

> "Arianne," he said, with no hesitation.

No nicknames.

No coddling.

Just my name.

The way it used to sound in sunlight.

---

> "Do I know you?" I asked.

He smiled.

Not wide.

Not awkward.

Just… present.

> "We were in the same art camp. You drew thunderstorms. I wrote poetry about coffee stains."

And suddenly, it cracked open.

The memory.

His laugh under a canvas tent.

My sketchbook smeared with graphite.

The way he watched me like I was already something worth framing.

---

> "Why now?" I asked, arms folded but breath uneven.

> "You disappeared," he said. "And I thought maybe someone should finally come looking."

---

The silence between us didn't stretch.

It held.

Like a pause made of cotton — not stone.

---

> "I didn't think anyone remembered me before all this," I admitted.

> "I didn't remember you because of what happened," he replied.

"I remembered you because you were loud without raising your voice. That stayed."

---

I wanted to say thank you.

But it felt too small.

So I just sat.

And he sat beside me.

And we didn't fill the silence —

we shared it.

Like two people finally finding something that didn't need healing to feel whole.


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