The knock was soft, almost hesitant—just a single tap against the metal door. I jolted upright from where I lay on the torn mattress, still adjusting to the dim nothingness of this so-called "room." I hadn't expected visitors. No one here talked. No one even looked at each other unless absolutely necessary.
I approached the door cautiously and pulled it open.
It was her.
The same girl from the previous night—the one with the steady eyes and the silent steps. Her gaze met mine, expression unreadable as always. She raised her hand and tapped her chest with two fingers, then pointed to herself.
Lin.
That's when I realized she was introducing herself.
"Lin?" I repeated.
She nodded.
I hesitated for a moment, then tapped my own chest. "Rahin."
A flicker of something—approval, maybe—passed through her face. Then, wordlessly, she motioned for me to follow her.
Outside, the sky hung low and gray, the air heavy with dust. Lin led me to a corner of the ruins near Wall Seven, where broken stone columns jutted from the ground like forgotten bones. There, she dropped to her knees and began drawing symbols in the dirt with a stick.
At first, I thought she was just passing time. But then she paused, looked up at me, and repeated the motions—deliberate, slow, expectant. She was teaching me something.
Signs. A language. The unspoken tongue of the outcast.
The first symbols were simple—gestures to indicate "you," "me," "listen," "danger." She'd tap her fingers to her forehead, then her chest, forming ideas not with words, but with shapes and motion. Her eyes locked onto mine, checking my understanding after each sign.
It felt strange, this kind of communication. Primitive, maybe. But powerful.
I mimicked her signs as best I could, stumbling at first, but gradually catching on. Each movement was a word; each pause, a sentence.
Then came a new sign. She pointed at the wall behind us, curled her fingers inward, and tapped her temple. Her brow furrowed slightly, as if trying to express something far more complicated.
I signed back: "What?"
She responded with another sequence: both hands pressed together, then quickly drawn apart in a flash. Her expression darkened.
Alive.
She was talking about the walls. The living walls.
A chill ran through me.
Lin turned away from me then and began writing again—this time, a more complex symbol. A spiraling eye, slashed through with a jagged line. I stared at it, not understanding.
She signed again. Slower this time.
Watcher.
Then she made a sign I hadn't seen before—both hands mimicking a mouth, then slicing across her throat.
No voice.
My pulse quickened. "Watcher without a voice?" I guessed.
She nodded once.
Then she made one last sign—she tapped her temple again, then pointed at the walls, and finally made the "Watcher" sign again.
The message was clear:
There were spies among us. And they didn't need voices to listen.
For a while, we sat there in silence, the wind brushing softly over the rubble, my mind spiraling. The ground beneath us felt less stable now, as if even the dirt might be watching.
Lin stood, brushed the dust from her palms, and turned to leave. Before she vanished into the ruins again, she made one final gesture.
She drew a small spiral on her own palm, then held it out to me.
I copied it.
Remember.
Then she was gone.
I stood there, palm open, spiral drawn in dust, wondering just how much this place was going to ask of me.
And whether I was even close to ready.