Eli didn't sleep that night.
He sat at the kitchen table, Mira's sketchpad open in front of him like a puzzle he couldn't solve. The drawings were more than just images—they were warnings. He could feel it in his bones.
Across the room, Mira lay curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, but she wasn't asleep either. Her eyes followed the cracks in the ceiling like they held secrets. Luka had given her something to chase, and now she couldn't stop.
Eli finally closed the book with a sigh. "You need to stop drawing for a while."
Mira didn't respond at first. Then, without turning to look at him, she signed slowly:
I can't stop hearing.
He clenched his jaw. "Then we leave town."
That made her turn.
Her expression was sharp now—alert, almost angry. She sat up quickly and reached for the pad again. She flipped to a blank page and drew fast, furious strokes: a boy standing before a door. A girl reaching out. A shadow curling around their ankles like smoke through fingers.
She shoved the page toward him.
Eli stared at it. "So what? You're saying you have to go back?"
She nodded once.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. "God, Mira... I promised Mom and Dad I'd keep you safe."
Her hand moved again:
This isn't about safety anymore. It's about remembering.
Eli looked away. He hated when she did that—used words he couldn't argue with because they came from somewhere deeper than language.
The next morning, Luka waited for Mira outside the school gates.
He hadn't slept either. His reflection in the window behind him was pale, shadows pooling under his eyes like ink stains.
"You told him," he said as soon as she approached.
She nodded.
He frowned. "And?"
She tapped her chest twice—then pointed to him.
He understood immediately.
"Eli doesn't want you to go back," he translated softly. "But you already made up your mind."
She smiled faintly and nudged his shoulder.
He sighed. "Yeah, me too."
They walked together in silence until he asked, "Do you think he'll follow us?"
Mira hesitated—then shook her head.
Luka glanced toward the horizon, where the forest loomed beyond the hills.
"I saw something last night," he said quietly. "In my dreams."
She stopped walking.
He continued, voice low: "It wasn't a dream, really. More like a memory that wasn't mine. I was standing in front of that door again—the one beneath the roots. But this time, someone else was there."
Mira's fingers twitched near her sketchpad.
"She was wearing red," Luka whispered. "And she was calling my name."
Mira blinked.
Then she turned over a new page and began drawing.
A woman in crimson stood before the door, hands raised—not in fear, but in warning. Behind her, the forest pulsed with unseen energy.
Luka stared at it. "How did you know?"
She didn't answer.
She just tapped the edge of the page twice.
At lunch, they sat beneath the oak again, the air between them heavy with unspoken things.
Luka passed her a note instead of speaking.
What do you think is under the tree? What if we shouldn't open it?
Mira read it carefully, then looked at him. A long moment passed.
Finally, she wrote back in pencil across the bottom of his paper:
Some doors only open when they're ready. We're just listening. For now.
He smiled faintly. "You make it sound so peaceful."
She tilted her head, then signed:
It might be. Or it might not. But silence doesn't stay silent forever.
Luka frowned. "You've heard it too, haven't you?"
She nodded once.
Then she closed his notebook gently and placed it back in his hands.
Tonight , she wrote beside his question mark.
He swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"
She gave him a small, knowing smile.
And for the first time, Luka felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn't alone in the silence after all.
Back at the apartment, Eli found another sketch taped to the mirror.
It showed two figures standing at the edge of the forest, holding hands.
Behind them, the trees leaned in closer.
Waiting.