The street outside was already dim, the kind of evening that feels unfinished.

The door was unlocked.

Inside, the house was quiet—but not empty.

My brother was waiting.

He sat on the floor near the table, school bag slumped beside him like it had given up first. His shoes were still on, one lace untied. He was staring at nothing in particular, the way children do when they are trying not to feel alone.

The moment the door closed behind me, he looked up.

His hands moved before his face did.

You’re late.

The sign was sharp.

Precise.

Angry in the way only children can be when they feel forgotten.

I nodded.

My mother had told me earlier—she would be working an extra shift tonight.

She’s a nurse.

After my father died, she returned to the hospital full time, as if keeping others alive was the only way she knew how to survive herself.

That meant my brother had waited.

Too long.

He crossed his arms tightly and turned his head away.

I don’t want to talk to you, he signed.

I didn’t argue.

I stepped closer and knelt in front of him so we were eye level.

Slowly, deliberately, I raised my hands.

Sorry.

I stretched the sign longer than necessary, making it impossible to miss.

Then I added a few ridiculous expressions—eyes widened too much, mouth pulled sideways, eyebrows jumping like they were trying to escape my face.

He held his breath, fighting it.

His lips twitched.

Then he broke.

His shoulders shook as he laughed, soundless but complete, the kind of laughter that uses the whole body.

Before he could recover, I scooped him up and lifted him into the air.

He protested wildly, hands flying, feet kicking, laughter turning into silent chaos.

I spun once, then twice, until he was dizzy and clinging to my shoulders.

When I finally set him down, he was grinning.

The anger was gone.

I tilted my head and signed carefully.

How was school?

I moved my hands slowly, deliberately—school, then how, then a questioning tilt of my eyebrows.

He groaned dramatically and signed back.

Boring.

Then, with extra force—

Miss gave extra work.

He rolled his eyes so hard his whole head followed.

I pretended to think for a moment, then signed with a straight face:

Then I will marry her.

Bring her home.

She’ll be nice to you.

He froze.

Stared at me.

Then waved his hands wildly in protest.

No. No. Please.

I’ve had enough.

We both laughed—quietly, completely.

We went to wash up together.

Afterward, we started on dinner.

Nothing special.

Rice, vegetables, something warm—something that would still be good when my mother finally came home tired and quiet.

We moved around each other without speaking.

He washed.

I chopped.

When he finished, he passed me the bowl without looking.

When I needed the salt, it was already in my hand.

This is how it has always been.

Sound was never the thing that held us together.

Understanding came from repetition.

From patience.

From learning how the other moved through space.

When the door finally opened again, my mother stood there for a moment before coming in.

Her shoulders sagged slightly when she saw the table set.

Then she smiled.

It wasn’t a big smile.

Just enough.

We ate together.

No rush.

No questions.

Only the small comfort of being in the same place, sharing the same food, letting the day loosen its grip.

To be continued…

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