Chapter 5 – The Language of Silence

  The scratch of a pen against rough paper was the only marker of passing time.

  Inside a library smelling of old dust and dried ink, I sat across from her. Elyra. A figure who seemed forged from frozen moonlight.

  "A meja is a table... A pena is a pen..." Her voice was gentle, yet it carried an unfamiliar echo in my ears. "To say you are writing in this book... I am writing on this book..."

  I repeated after her. My tongue felt stiff, trying to articulate sounds that did not belong to me.

  We sat too close. The scent of jasmine and something inherently cold emanated from her. My breath caught in my throat. Not from some adolescent nervousness, but from the stark realization of our differing existences. She was eternal; I was ephemeral. She belonged to this world; I was an anomaly.

  In the library’s backyard, beneath the shadow of an old oak tree whose roots jutted out like the earth’s veins, I dug a hole.

  The soil here was damp and smelled of fungi.

  Beside the shallow pit lay a nearly shapeless heap of fabric. Jeans stiff with dried blood and swamp mud. A black t-shirt that was more hole than cloth. A white shirt, now a dull gray—a silent witness to the three months I had spent crawling, just trying to survive in an uncharted forest.

  They were not merely clothes. They were my old, rotting skin.

  "Are you burying yourself?"

  The voice arrived without the prelude of footsteps. Elyra stood there, her white dress completely unblemished by the muddy ground.

  "It's trash," I answered flatly.

  "It is an identity."

  Her slender hand reached out, lifting the garments from the dirt.

  "What a shame," she murmured. "These threads were woven with an absurd density."

  Elyra shook her head slowly. "Step back a little."

  She placed the clothes on a flat, moss-covered stone. She did not take out needles, thread, or a loom. She simply spread her palm over the pile of fabric.

  Her eyes closed. The air around us vibrated. The sound of the wind abruptly ceased, as if nature itself were holding its breath.

  "Temporal Rewind," she whispered.

  It was not a blinding light that emerged, but a distortion. Like watching a mirage hover over hot asphalt.

  I saw it with my own eyes, yet my logic refused to accept it.

  The mud stains did not just vanish; they lifted, reverting into dust that drifted away. The crusted, dried blood liquefied once more, then evaporated into a thin red mist before disappearing entirely. Torn and missing threads writhed like living worms, seeking out their partners, reattaching themselves, reweaving the bonds that had been severed.

  The dull gray of the shirt slowly faded, replaced by a pristine white that almost hurt the eyes. The indigo dye of the jeans returned to its deep, rich hue.

  Time was wound backward. Confined entirely to those objects.

  Three months of torment in the woods, erased in three seconds.

  Elyra lowered her hand. Her breathing was slightly labored—the only sign that the magic had demanded a toll.

  "I told you, didn't I?" she said, handing the neat pile of clothes back to me. "Rewinding time on inanimate objects is far easier than on living beings. A soul refuses to step backward, but an object... an object always obeys."

  I took them.

  The smell... the faint scent of detergent. The smell of a store. The scent of my original world, before everything changed.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "So you remember," she answered, turning her back and leaving me alone with the gaping hole in the earth. "That you were once there, and you survived."

  **

  Back inside the library, I sat across from her. Elyra. I tried to focus, staring at her closed eyes. Liquid gold hiding behind those eyelids.

  "The sentence structure is forward-moving. Simpler than I expected," I muttered, setting down the pen.

  Elyra stood, her steps producing no sound. "Do not be mistaken. That is merely the common tongue. Every race possesses the sound of their own soul."

  She walked away. Her back straight, elegant, yet feeling so distant.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Follow me."

  We navigated the labyrinth of bookshelves. The second floor, the third, the fourth. The wooden stairs creaked beneath my weight, yet remained completely silent under hers. We stopped at a desk in the corner of the fifth floor. Dusty. Forgotten.

  A book lay resting there.

  "Lisa's," she said, handing the book to me. "An outsider. Like you."

  I opened the pages. Neat handwriting, filled with marginalia. In the top left corner of every page, a date was written. The temporal footprints of someone who had once lived, breathed, and studied here. Someone who was likely nothing more than ashes now.

  "Thank you."

  Silence enveloped us once more. The only sound was the rustle of the pages I turned.

  "Miss..." I pointed at an incomplete anatomical drawing. "There is no word for this here."

  Elyra tilted her head. "What is it?"

  Unconsciously, I stood up. The distance between us vanished. I raised my hand, my fingertip grazing the tip of her nose. Cold. Her skin was as smooth as porcelain.

  "Hidung."

  She did not pull away. The corners of her lips lifted slightly—a smile so faint it was nearly imperceptible, yet it shifted the temperature of the room entirely.

  "That is a nose to humans. n?sa to us."

  **

  That night, the air turned sharp. The rain had just stopped, leaving behind the scent of wet earth that slipped through the cracks of the library windows.

  I was still awake, writing beneath the flickering candlelight. Quiet. A silence so dense I could hear the beating of my own heart.

  Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

  Elyra emerged from the shadows of the shelves, a thick blanket wrapped around her slender frame. Thin steam rose from the two cups in her hands.

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  "It is cold," she said simply, placing a cup on my desk.

  "Thank you." I took a sip. Sweet. "I actually prefer coffee."

  "That bitter black liquid?" She sat across from me, pulling her blanket tighter.

  "Not entirely bitter. There's sweetness, there's milk."

  She fell silent, watching the steam rising from her tea. "Next time, I would like to try it."

  The following days melted into a timeless routine. I asked, she answered. I read, she watched.

  "Miss, I want to know about crystals," I asked one afternoon, sliding a thick tome toward her. "Why do monsters have them in their bodies?"

  Elyra did not answer immediately. She read through my summarized notes, her eyes darting across the page.

  "Crystal stones are vessels for the energy of the will," she read softly. "If found in monsters, they grow due to highly energetic and negative environments. If found in beasts, it is natural evolution."

  She closed the book.

  "Could you show me? That energy?" I asked.

  Elyra raised her index finger. No incantation, no superfluous movement.

  "Little light."

  A small sphere of light, pure and blinding, hovered at the tip of her finger. Beautiful in its simplicity.

  "Can I do that?"

  The light vanished. She took a sip of her tea, her gaze piercing right through me. "No."

  The answer struck my chest. "Why? The books say every living being possesses energy."

  "You do not originate from here, Azisa. You possess no vessel."

  I stared at my palms. Rough, covered in calluses, yet inside... hollow.

  "But I've grown stronger," I argued. "My physique has changed."

  "Your body absorbs energy like a dry sponge, but it does not store it. You use it to permanently reinforce your muscles and bones. Unconsciously." She set her cup down. "It is an anomaly. You do not generate energy. You consume it."

  The rain returned a few nights after that conversation. But this time, the rain in the Elven village did not fall like mere water; it descended like a melody sent from the sky.

  On the fourth floor of the library, the world narrowed into a circle of light cast by a single crystal lamp on the desk. Outside the window, the forest breathed in the wet and the dark. Inside, there was only me, a pile of books, and her.

  Elyra.

  She sat across the table, neither reading nor writing. She simply existed. Her eyes were closed, her head resting lightly against the hand propping up her face. Her breathing was steady, synchronized with the rhythmic tapping of the rain against the glass.

  I set down my pen. The black ink bled slightly into the rough paper where I had pressed down too hard.

  "Tired?" Her voice broke the silence without her opening her eyes.

  "Just... full," I answered quietly. "My head is full of foreign words."

  Elyra opened her eyes. That liquid gold looked at me, not with judgment, but with a quiet curiosity.

  "Empty it." She sat up straight. "A vessel that is full cannot be filled any further."

  I leaned back against the hard wooden chair. The crack of my spine sounded abrasive in a room this quiet. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and paused.

  "May I?"

  Elyra nodded. "Your smoke carries the scent of longing."

  I lit it. A small spark flared, and then gray smoke danced upward, spiraling into the crystal's light.

  "Miss," I called out.

  "Elyra."

  "Elyra." The name felt both foreign and familiar on my tongue. "Why do you let me stay here? I am human. My lifespan is short. I have no magic. I..."

  She didn't answer immediately. She stood, her footsteps soundless against the wooden floor, and walked around the table until she stood beside me.

  She looked down at my messy handwriting.

  "Do you know why this library is so silent?" she asked.

  I shook my head.

  "Because we Elves remember everything. We live far too long. Every memory piles up, becoming a deafening noise inside our heads." Her long, slender index finger touched my temple.

  Her touch was cold, but it left a strangely warm trail beneath my skin.

  "You are different, Azisa. You come from nowhere. You do not carry the burden of this world's history. Near you..." She took a slow breath, as if inhaling the scent of the rain and tobacco. "...it feels silent. Calm."

  My heart beat a fraction slower, a fraction heavier.

  I stared at her hand, still lingering near my face. Unconsciously, I reached out and gently grasped her wrist. The pulse there beat faintly, incredibly slow—the rhythm of a long life.

  ...

  The library's long table had transformed into an alchemy laboratory. However, what we sought was not gold, but a memory.

  "Wild coffee beans, fresh cow's milk, sugarcane stalks," I muttered, taking attendance of the ingredients laid out on the table.

  Elyra sat across from me, resting her chin on her hand, looking mildly entertained. "Are you certain you want to mix all of this?"

  "Yes."

  I took a handful of coffee beans I had roasted until they were practically burnt. "Crush these. Until they turn to dust."

  Elyra snapped her fingers. Micro-wind. Sharp currents of air spun on a millimeter scale within her palm. The coffee beans weren't ground; they were eroded by the air into an incredibly fine black powder.

  "Then this." I pointed to the bowl of milk. "Separate the water. I just need the solids. The fat. The cream."

  Her golden eyes glowed faintly. "Material dehydration."

  Water vapor plumed upward from the bowl, leaving behind yellowish-white clumps. She pulverized it again with wind magic until it became a white powder as soft as snow. She did the same with the sugarcane juice, transmuting it into fine sugar crystals.

  Now it was my turn.

  The Generalist instinct within me took over. This skill—which made me "capable of everything but a master of nothing"—turned out to be useful for one specific thing: measuring taste.

  I didn't use a scale. I relied on muscle memory and intuition.

  I grabbed an empty wooden container.

  Two spoons of black coffee powder. (Too little? No, the coffee needs to be present, but not dominant.)

  Three spoons of milk creamer powder. (Fat is the key to comfort.)

  Two and a half spoons of sugar. (Glucose for an exhausted brain.)

  I stirred them together. The color shifted into a pale brown. The color of parched earth.

  "Hot water," I requested.

  Elyra provided it in an instant.

  I poured my concoction into two cups, then brewed it. The aroma wafted up. It wasn't the fresh coffee scent of a high-end cafe. It was the scent of a sachet. A comforting, artificial aroma. The smell of an office breakroom.

  I took a small sip.

  My brow furrowed.

  "It's missing something..." I muttered. "It's too pure."

  "What is it missing?" Elyra asked, perplexed.

  "It tastes too healthy. It needs a slight taste of..." I added a pinch of fine salt—just a tiny fraction—to mimic the flavor of preservatives, then stirred it again.

  I brought the cup to my lips once more.

  My eyes closed.

  A bitterness masked by sweet fat. A texture that coated the tongue.

  "Perfect," I whispered. "It tastes cheap. It tastes like home."

  I pushed the other cup toward Elyra. "Try it. This is called 3-in-1 Instant Coffee."

  Elyra stared at the murky liquid with hesitation, then took a slow sip. Her eyes widened. She didn't swallow right away, letting the flavor fill her mouth.

  "It is sweet..." she commented softly. "But there is a charred taste. And the milk feels thick."

  She set the cup down, but her hand didn't release the handle.

  "Is this the taste of your world, Azisa?"

  "It's the taste of exhaustion in my world," I corrected. "A flavor we drink so we can keep working, even when our bodies want to stop."

  Elyra smiled faintly, a smile tinged with irony. "You humans are strange. You destroy pure ingredients from nature, turning them into dead powder, only to resurrect them with hot water... all to lie to your bodies so they do not feel the ache."

  She lifted her cup again.

  "I like it."

  We sat in silence once more. But this time, the silence wasn't empty. It was filled with the aroma of coffee, cigarette smoke, and the sound of rain.

  Elyra took another sip, a larger one this time.

  "Teach me," she said suddenly.

  "Human language?"

  "No." She set down her cup, then pointed at my chest. "Teach me how to feel 'alive' within a fleeting span of time."

  I let out a small laugh, the sound hoarse and exhausted. "I'm still looking for that myself, Elyra. I ran from my world because I felt dead there."

  "Then..." She slid her chair closer. The scrape of wood was loud. Our knees almost touched. "...we will search for it together. Here. Now."

  She took my notebook, flipping to an empty page.

  "Write your name," she instructed.

  I wrote it. Azisa.

  "Now write my name next to it."

  I wrote it. Elyra.

  She took the pen from my hand. Our fingers brushed, lingering for a moment. She didn't pull her hand away. Neither did I.

  Beneath the two names, she drew a simple circle.

  "In the ancient Elven tongue," she whispered, her eyes not on the paper, but looking straight into mine. "This circle means 'Moment'. Something that has no beginning and no end, yet remains finite."

  "Like this coffee?" I asked.

  "Like tonight."

  She took another sip of her coffee. A trace of milk remained at the corner of her lips.

  Without thinking—or perhaps because I was thinking too much—I reached out. My thumb brushed the corner of her lips, wiping the stain away.

  Elyra froze.

  The seconds stopped.

  The world outside the window—the rain, the forest, the monsters, fate itself—vanished. There was only the texture of her skin against my thumb and her widened golden gaze.

  I should have pulled my hand back. I should have apologized. It was impolite. It crossed the boundary between races, the boundary between guest and host.

  But I didn't.

  And she didn't pull away.

  She closed her eyes slowly, as if savoring the rough, calloused touch against her smooth skin. Her breath exhaled warmly across my finger.

  "Azisa..." Her voice was barely audible, swallowed by the sound of the rain.

  "Yes."

  "Do not die too quickly."

  The words were not a plea. They were a command. Or perhaps, a disguised fear.

  I slowly withdrew my hand. The warmth of her skin lingered on my fingertips.

  "I'll try," I answered.

  That night, we didn't learn a single word more. We simply drank our coffee until the dregs settled at the bottom of the cups, letting the silence speak volumes more than the thousands of books surrounding us.

  We knew, without needing to say it, that this moment was an anchor. Something that would keep us from drifting away, even when distance eventually separated us.

  A circle.

  A moment.

  The next day, the morning sun felt slightly warmer than usual. We walked toward the flower garden at the edge of the village. Her favorite spot. Elyra always claimed every place was her favorite, but here, her shoulders seemed more relaxed.

  I sat beneath a large tree, lighting a cigarette. The gray smoke curled upward, a stark contrast to the colorful flower petals.

  "Home," she murmured suddenly. "This village is my home."

  "You don't want to see the outside world?"

  "I have already seen it through books, and through the eyes of people like you." She turned her head, her golden gaze locking onto my eyes. "I am not searching for a home, Azisa. I build it within myself. Here."

  The words hung in the air. Heavy. As for me? I was still searching. Or perhaps, I was only running.

  Time passed without permission.

  The day of departure arrived.

  Inside the library, two wooden jars filled with my hand-made coffee powder rested on the desk. The strong aroma of coffee fought against the scent of old paper.

  Elyra sipped her milk coffee. A flavor that was no longer foreign to her.

  "Bitter," she commented, but she didn't put it down. "But I like it."

  "It was my favorite back in the old world." I exhaled my final drag of smoke in this room. "It's time."

  "Your destination?"

  "The Dwarves. Or a Dungeon. I don't know."

  "Go to the Dwarves first. Do not be a fool and die pointlessly." There was a painfully thin tremor in her otherwise flat voice.

  "Are you worried about me?"

  She smiled, hiding her expression behind her sleeve. "I simply dislike it when people I know vanish just like that."

  I looked at her. An eternal figure trapped among books.

  "Come with me."

  The words slipped out on their own. But her golden eyes did not waver.

  "I will not leave this village."

  "I understand."

  I stood up, unbuttoning my outer shirt. That fabric was the only "real" thing from my world that I could leave behind.

  "This is for you."

  Elyra touched the shirt.

  "May I?"

  "Wear it."

  She draped my oversized shirt over her elven dress. It looked ridiculous, yet at the same time, profoundly intimate. The scent of my world now embraced her body.

  "Does it suit me?" She twirled slowly.

  "Perfectly."

  My chest felt tight. This parting felt wrong, yet staying would be a far greater mistake. I had to leave before the roots of this place entangled my feet, which only knew how to run.

  At the village gate. Viela waited with a forced smile.

  I retrieved my spear and knives from the bushes. The weight of these weapons granted me a cold sense of security.

  "Don't forget us," Viela said.

  "I won't."

  Then, Elyra. She stood there, the wind playing with the hem of the shirt she wore. She didn't cry. Elves did not weep for things like this.

  I took her hand, pressing the back of it against my forehead. Cold.

  "My respect to you."

  She took my hand, doing the exact same. Pressing the back of my hand to her forehead. Warm.

  "And mine to you."

  Our eyes met. Gold met black. In that single second, a thousand unsaid words passed between us. About differing lifespans. About diverging paths. About the endless circle of a moment.

  "Go," she whispered. "Find Fergaer in the Dwarven lands."

  "Understood, Miss."

  I turned around. I couldn't look back. If I looked back, I would shatter.

  My feet pressed into the dirt. My muscles, having absorbed the energy of this world, screamed for release.

  Whoosh!

  The ground beneath me cracked.

  Boom!

  I shot forward. It wasn't just running; I exploded into motion. The wind slapped my face, erasing all hesitation. The trees blurred into streaks. This speed... this was freedom. This was escape.

  Far behind me, Viela gaped, her flute nearly slipping from her grasp.

  "Master... did you see that? He was hiding the strength of a monster behind that blank face of his."

  Elyra closed her eyes, feeling the residual tremors in the earth.

  "You troublesome disciple," she murmured, touching the shirt she wore. "How many times are you going to bring lost children to me?"

  Viela let out a small laugh, though her eyes were melancholic. "I just didn't want you to be lonely, Master."

  "What did you say?"

  "Nothing... you virgin grandma," Viela whispered, then blew into her flute.

  The melody drifted, weaving into the wind, chasing my back as I grew further away. Time meant nothing to those who were not waiting, yet for those left behind, a single second could feel like an eternity.