SILENCE IS GOLDEN

The night air is warm, covered with beautiful lights from the street as they cross the bridge towards home. Loud music played from the radio inside the car. Laughter filled the small space—her father making charming sounds that made her giggle, her mom smiling at her, holding her small hand. She felt safe. She felt loved. She had a voice. Yet a blinding light covered their sight—with one sharp turn, the car flipped three times. She counted each roll: one, two, three.

Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Then—silence.

Not the peaceful kind: the kind that locked itself inside her throat and threw away the key.

When Lira opened her eyes, the world was muffled. Her parents weren’t laughing anymore, with trembling lips, her parents were covered with blood—no life. Her throat burned, but no sound came out when she tried to cry for them. She felt her soul left and her vision started to fade, hoping that everything was just a dream.

Three weeks had passed after the accident, the moment she opened eyes again, and a familiar room welcomed her, she knew she would wake up with the same room after she had a panic attack of what happened then lost her consciousness. Two people standing on the doorway, a man in white coat and with a woman, whom she had never met before.

“I’m her aunt, how’s my niece?” the woman looked she just went from a funeral with her outfit: black blouse and pants, with an exhausting expression, the woman looked suffering and—grieving.

“She’s not talking since the moment her consciousness came back. During our observation and we ran some few tests—she has psychogenic mutism,” the man spoke which made her aunt look her way with pity. She looked away and remained silence. Her world shattered because of the expression she never thought could hurt her.

“Her vocal cords are fine, but her mind built wall. Due to the impact of the accident which leads to mutism. At 8 years old, it’s the most traumatic experience you would ever have.”

“Gagaling ba siya?”

“She will, if she’ll help herself. Pero hindi siya magagamot dito dahil kulang kami ng doktor sa kondisyon niya. I suggest she needs an expert for this one. I’ll recommend you to a friend of mine in Canada., she’s good at this. You live there for 10 years, right? It’s better if she stays there. It will take months or perhaps years for her to heal; my friend will run some tests again for her and will find a good therapist for her. I have to go, Mrs. Luna Bennett.”

As she heard the door closed, she wiped her tears away and didn’t face her aunt. She remembered her mom had a sister who lives in Canada for 10 years, she remembered this is the woman who used to send gifts to her.

“Lira, face me, baby.” Her aunt’s soft voice calms the half of her, she slowly face her and her aunt welcomed her with a warm smile.

“Hi, baby. You grow up beautifully…j-just like your m-mom.” The moment she mentioned her mom, she open her mouth. Strained. Pushed. But nothing came out. She’s eager to speak which made her aunt hugged her.

“Lira, baby, no. Don’t pressure yourself, baby. You’re hurting yourself. I know…it’s hard. Shh. I’m here now. I’m here.” Her aunt embrace her in its arms while rubbing her back softly. She felt so weak and—hopeless. Worthless. A burden. A mistake. She felt pitiful towards herself; no sobs, no voice came out from her lips—but silent cries. Silent grief.

“Don’t worry. We have high hopes, hmm? I’ll take you with me. I’ll never leave you. I promised your mom. Shh. My beautiful angel,” she heard her aunt sobs while hugging her.

That night, alone in her aunt’s embrace and gentle words—she felt safe with the gentle love of silence. At 8 years old, Lira made a promise to the silence:

If words meant pain…then silence would be her armor.

Until silence will be seen as golden.

---------------

20 YEARS LATER...

“Good morning, Lira!”

Her aunt greeted her every day with joy. She smiled back at her, but it never reached her eyes. Always. For 20 years, her aunt greeted her without exhaustion, yet it kills her knowing she couldn’t even say “Hi” or “Hello” back to her aunt. Sa tuwing bababa siya ay nakabihis na siya para sa pagpasok niya sa bookstore na pagmamay-ari niya. Her Aunt Luna gave it to her, since she’s fond of books rather than spending time with people. Plus, this way of living will help her to heal from mutism.

“Nandito na ang breakfast at lunch mo.” Her aunt said softly, yet she looked at her aunt worriedly.

“I know you can cook, anak. But I love spoiling you. You’re still a baby in my eyes, Lira. Ingat ka sa bookstore, ha?” she nodded; the words locked behind her teeth, 20 years of silence pressing down. After the accident, everything vanished—her voice, her laughter, and…her family. Silence filled her, heavy, unbreaking, but—safe.

Lira locked the door behind her at exactly 8:00 AM, always, same routine everyday. Her movements were calm and controlled. She practiced detachment to avoid panic attacks. She walked the same route everyday. Seven minutes. One hundred forty-two steps. She counted them. Counting made the noise go away. It made her invisible.

The bookstore stood at the corner. “Lumina Books”-the name was faded gold now; she touched the door handle with careful fingers. Numb. Anchored. Safe. She stepped inside, the smell hit her first: old paper, dust, and faint ghost of coffee. The scent wrapped around her like armor. Familiar. Predictable and silent.

The bell above the door was quiet at this hour; it should stay that way until closing, she thought and…wanted. She cleaned and organized everything—just like she always does.

9:15 AM, the bell above the door rang unexpectedly. Usually no one will enteredat this time. Lira’s shoulders locked, her breath hitched. A man stepped inside. Tall. Half-Canadian calm, half-Italian with warmth in his eyes. She saw the man scanned the room, and stopped when he saw her.

“Excuse me? Poetry section?” his voice was low and careful—an offering instead of a demand. She didn’t answer; she couldn’t. Her throat felt locked. She breathed in and out, then she lifted one hand. Trembling, hesitant, but she pointed toward the back corner. Aisle 7.

The man did not repeat the question louder like everyone else did. He just...waited. Three seconds. Five. Ten passed.

“Thank you,” he said softly, as if she had spoke. He smiled then. Gentle and observant. Lira looked down fast. Guarded, walled off. She could barely hear her heart pounding. Scared. He walked past her, unhurried, unpressured. But before he disappeared, he glanced back. Not at the books, at her.

Her heart beats faster, louder than the silence she’d built.

Two hours later, he was back and stood in front of her, two meters away, frowning at the shelf.

“Noir section?” he murmured, more to himself than to her. Lira watched him from the counter. Most people would ask again. Louder, with frustration. But, he didn’t. He just looked…lost. Not angry, but patient. Her fingers moved before her mind could stop them. She tore a yellow Post-it from the pad under the counter, then pen shook in her hand. Exposed. Vulnerable. Raw and wrote.

“Aisle 4.”

She slid it across the counter toward him; her eyes stayed on the wood—avoiding eye contact. He picked up the note. Read it. Then looked up at her. For a long moment, he just stared. Not at the word, but at her hand—at the tremor she couldn’t hide. Then he pulled out his own pen from his pocket, blue ink. He flipped the Post-it over and wrote something on the back. He placed it back on the counter and slid it toward her. Then he left toward Aisle 4. time passed and he left without a word but only a warm smile at her.

Lira stared at it, her pulse was loud in her ears. With shaky hands she slowly turned it over.

“No pressure, buddy.”

-E.

Three words. Her first words back in 20 years weren’t spoken. They were written, and someone finally wrote back. Lira held the Post-it until closing time. The yellow paper felt heavier than any book she’d shelved that day.

No pressure, buddy.

No one had said that to her before; not “speak up”, not “it’s okay”. Just…no pressure.

At 6:00 PM, she locked the bookstore; the bell stayed silent. But her pocket wasn’t. The Post-it was still there, folded carefully—like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

As she walked home, not minding her stomach growling from hunger; she skipped her breakfast and lunch because of that man clouding her mind. While she was counting steps again, 142, one thought kept repeating in her mind, louder than 20 years of silence:

What if silence wasn’t armor?

What if it was a prison?

And what if this stranger with gentle eyes held the key?

È