**Lessons in Silence**
When Edward walked into the classroom at eight in the morning, the air was thick with the scent of dampness, school breakfast, and old chalk dust. A heavy atmosphere clung to the room like a stubborn fog, and the wooden floorboards creaked underfoot, as if grumbling about the early hour. He shut the door and paused for a moment, gazing out the window. Outside, a fine drizzle streaked the glass, droplets pooling on the sill like smudged watercolours left carelessly by an idle hand. October beyond the panes was bleak, bitter, and it settled a hollow ache in his chest. The chill wasn’t just outside—it seeped in, filling the corners of the room, lingering in the gaps between glances.
The students sat in silence. Not just quiet, but utterly still, as if frozen, tense, like they sensed something terrible had happened—or already knew.
Edward moved to the front, placed his worn folder on the desk, shrugged off his coat, but didn’t sit. It felt less like stepping into a familiar classroom and more like entering a place where something irreversible had just unfolded—something no one dared name. Without turning, he spoke.
“Right then. Who’d like to explain why your textbooks are still shut?”
Silence. Even the usual fidgeters, the ones who nudged their neighbours or whispered behind notebooks, sat motionless, as if someone had commanded them all to hold their tongues. The tension in the room was coiled tight, like a string about to snap. Edward turned. Every pair of eyes was fixed not on him, but on the corner—where, by the window, at the back desk, sat Emily Carter.
She wasn’t crying. Just staring at the rain sliding sluggishly down the pane, leaving murky trails. Her face was waxen, unnaturally still. On the desk lay her diary, open to a blank page, as if she’d meant to write something but her hand had refused. Beside it, a pen without its cap—the same one she clicked nervously during tests. Nothing else. No exercise book, no textbook, no pencil case. Just her bag on the floor, half-open, a scrap of paper poking out like an unfinished thought left behind.
Edward waited. Then slowly walked over. Tossing over his shoulder, he said, “The rest of you—open your physics books. Third problem. Read carefully.”
He sat beside Emily. She didn’t react, as if he were a ghost.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” she murmured. Her voice was fragile, like thin glass about to crack under the slightest pressure. Each word sounded final, as though it might be the last.
He didn’t press. Just stayed there. Silent. Then he leaned forward, carefully pulled her notebook from her bag, and set it in front of her. Without asking, without meeting her eyes. She didn’t resist. Her hands stayed motionless on her lap, statue-still.
“Carter,” he said quietly, “if it’s bad, you can say. Doesn’t go away if you keep it in. Just piles up.”
She frowned. Her lips trembled slightly. Turned to him—barely, almost imperceptibly.
“And what’ll you say? The usual? ‘Stay strong’? Or will you start asking about home, why my mum won’t get out of bed? Then tell me childhood’s the best years and I should treasure them? Funny, that. Treasure it. Go to bed wondering if tonight’s the night I’ll hear her crying in the next room. Or the neighbour shouting, smashing dishes. Or the fridge humming, nothing inside but empty shelves. That’s the best time, is it?”
Her voice was calm but hollow, as if she’d said these words a thousand times—in her head, in her dreams, alone.
Edward said nothing. He glanced at her diary, where tiny houses were sketched in the margins—empty, no lights in the windows. One had a line through it, like it had collapsed.
He spoke softly.
“Silence can be an escape. But it’s not a way out.”
Emily looked up. No tears. Just defiance and exhaustion—not from one sleepless night, but from a life too heavy for a child’s shoulders.
“You know what it’s like? Coming home and pretending everything’s fine? When Dad left, Mum just… stopped. And you’re making porridge from crumbs because there’s no money for bread? But you smile at school anyway, because you have to, because if you don’t, who will? Then you listen to the shouting through the wall, waiting for the ambulance, because you know—sooner or later, it’ll come. You know how that feels?”
Her voice was quiet, but it hummed like a strained wire—not from anger, but the weight of holding it in too long.
Edward watched her and didn’t speak. She wasn’t waiting for an answer.
“I’m thirteen. And I already know no one’s coming to help. They just say the right things, nod, make promises. Then leave. I don’t want you to leave too. And don’t pity me. Pity’s when you look down. I’m not beneath you.”
He nodded. Then stood.
“I’m not looking down. And I won’t leave. I’ll be here. Every day at eight. That’s what I can give. And—a proper stew. Not from nothing.”
She looked down sharply, like she was afraid to believe him.
“What stew?”
“Beef, carrots, potatoes. The real thing. I’ll make it. Bring it in. If you want.”
“If you do,” she said quietly, “I’ll wash up. Promise.”
He wanted to say more. Something important. But didn’t. Sometimes silence is a promise too—if there’s warmth in it.
Chalk scraped the board. Someone started copying the problem. Life went on—no louder, no quieter, just as it knew how.
Edward returned to his desk. Glanced up. Noticed Emily had opened her notebook. Slowly, like she was afraid someone might stop her. Like it was the first movement after being frozen a long time.
He pretended not to see. Sometimes the quietest lessons speak the loudest.
