The room smells like disinfectant and boiled rice.
It's a thin, clinging smell—cleaned too often, fed too cheaply. It settles at the back of the throat and stays there. Two metal beds sit against opposite walls, their frames dulled and scratched, paint worn away where hands have gripped and let go. A narrow window is set high, barred, the white paint on the metal chipped and flaking where fingers have worried at it over time. The light coming through is flat, neither warm nor cold. Afternoon tipping toward evening, undecided.
They are sent here without explanation.
"Sit," the woman says, already turning away. She doesn't look at either of them. Her keys jangle once, sharp and brief. The door closes with a sound that feels final even though it isn't.
The girl sits immediately.
She does it too fast, as if sitting is something she knows how to do correctly. She swings her legs once, a small, unconscious motion, then stops herself. Her body stills as though she has remembered a rule she was never told out loud. Her shoes don't quite reach the floor, and she presses her heels together anyway, trying to make them.
The boy doesn't sit right away.
He stays by the wall, shoulders angled inward, chin lowered. He has learned where to put his body so it takes up the least amount of space. When he finally sits, it's on the edge of the bed. Spine straight. Hands folded loosely in his lap. Still, but not stiff. Like something held in readiness.
They don't look at each other.
For a long moment, the only sound is the hum from somewhere deep inside the building—pipes, machines, something breathing through the walls. It's constant enough to fade into the background, loud enough to remind them they aren't alone.
"This is stupid," the girl says.
Her voice isn't loud. It isn't defiant. It lands carefully in the room, placed rather than thrown, like she's making sure it doesn't disappear on impact.
The boy doesn't react.
She waits. Counts in her head without meaning to. Five. Ten.
She twists her fingers together. "They didn't even tell us what we did."
Silence.
Her mouth tightens. She exhales through her nose. "I didn't do anything."
Still nothing.
She turns her head slowly, cautiously, the way you check a mirror that might crack if you move too fast.
He isn't looking at her. He's watching the door. The handle. The narrow gap beneath it. His foot is angled toward it, heel slightly lifted, like if something happens, he'll already be moving.
She studies him instead.
The way his jaw tightens when footsteps pass outside. The way his hands don't fidget—not frozen, but controlled. Prepared.
"You don't talk much," she says.
It isn't an accusation. It sounds more like she's filing the observation away for later.
He doesn't answer.
She opens her mouth again, then closes it. Shifts her weight on the bed. Tries a different way.
"My name's Ira."
That makes him glance at her. Just for a second. Long enough to register the sound of it. Long enough to decide what to do with it.
He doesn't give his name.
She nods anyway, as if he has.
"My mother says silence is rude," she continues. Her voice drifts, conversational, like she's filling time rather than demanding anything. "But she also says children should be seen, not heard. So I don't know which one she actually wants."
She waits.
The boy's gaze returns to the door.
She presses her lips together. Feels the familiar tightening in her chest—the one that comes when words go out and nothing comes back.
"I talk," she says carefully, choosing each word as if it might be taken away, "because if I don't, people forget I'm there."
This time, he looks at her longer.
Not curiosity. Assessment.
He speaks without turning his head fully. His voice is quiet, but there's no uncertainty in it.
"Talking makes them notice."
She blinks.
"That's the point," she says.
His fingers curl once, then loosen. A small, involuntary movement. "Not always."
She thinks about that. The idea settles somewhere uncomfortable.
Footsteps pass again outside the door. Slower this time. A shadow moves beneath it. Both of them go still—but differently. She straightens, smoothing her dress with both hands, making herself neat. He lowers his gaze, shoulders rounding slightly, becoming smaller.
The footsteps fade.
She lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"So," she says, softer now, like she's speaking into something fragile, "we're both here."
He nods. Barely.
"Do you think they'll forget us?"
He shakes his head once. No hesitation.
"How do you know?"
"They don't forget," he says. "They wait."
Her throat tightens. She swallows.
The light shifts. The hum seems quieter, or maybe the room has learned how to listen. The air feels heavier, like it's holding onto their words.
She swings her legs again, slower this time. Controlled. "When do you think it's okay to talk?"
He doesn't answer immediately. This time, he actually considers the question. His eyes unfocus slightly, fixed on something inside his own head.
"When it won't make things worse," he says.
She frowns. "How do you tell?"
"You don't," he says. "You guess."
She laughs—a small, startled sound that escapes before she can stop it. She clamps a hand over her mouth immediately, eyes darting to the door.
He watches her this time. Watches the way her laughter collapses into caution, how quickly she folds herself back in.
"That's a terrible rule," she whispers.
"It works," he replies.
She looks at him properly now. Notices the faint bruise just visible at the edge of his sleeve. The way his shoes are lined up perfectly beneath the bed, even though no one asked him to do that.
"What if," she says slowly, testing the thought as she speaks it, "we make our own rule?"
He tilts his head. Just a fraction.
"We talk," she continues, "when it helps us. And we don't when it doesn't."
He doesn't answer right away.
She waits. This time, she doesn't rush to fill the silence.
The quiet stretches. Not empty. Different. Shared.
Finally, he nods.
She smiles—not wide. Just enough.
"Okay," she says. "Then I won't talk right now."
She leans back against the bed. Lets her hands rest in her lap. The effort of staying quiet presses against her chest, but she holds it.
The boy shifts slightly, adjusting his posture as if the room itself has changed shape.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. The light dims another shade.
She feels the urge to speak rise again. Swallows it.
He glances at her. Notices the tension in her jaw.
"It's… fine," he says. "You can."
She shakes her head. "Not yet."
He watches her for a moment longer, then looks away. But something has settled between them. Something steadier.
When the door opens later and a different woman calls their names—both of them—he stands at the same time she does.
They walk out side by side. Not touching. Not looking at each other.
But when the hallway noise rushes back in and the building swallows them again, the silence between them goes with them.
Not as punishment.
As choice.