His name is Veer. I didn't know it then, but I'd soon learn every part of him that words can't carry.
The next time he entered the library, it was raining — not the kind that drums violently, but the soft, apologetic kind. The kind that washes memories rather than hides them.
He was soaked, hoodie clinging to his shoulders, a battered leather bag in one hand.
He didn't greet anyone.
He went straight to the piano again.
This time, I walked closer.
I couldn't hear the notes, but I felt them.My skin tingled. My heart followed his fingers.
The old man beside the biography section started crying.A young girl stopped scrolling her phone and stared at nothing.
Even I — someone who lives without sound — felt like something inside me was being played.
He didn't look up. His eyes were closed, but not in peace. No… in pain. Like every key brought back something he never wanted to remember.
When he finally stopped, there was silence — not mine, but everyone else's.And then, softly, he spoke.
To the piano.Not to us.
"You remember me, don't you?"
I saw it then.This boy wasn't playing music for people.He was playing for ghosts.
He got up, turned——and caught my eyes.
We didn't speak.We couldn't.But something passed between us. Something without sound, but full of meaning.
He blinked, surprised I hadn't looked away.
Then he said something with his lips — slow, deliberate.
"Did you hear it?"
I shook my head, signing back: I don't hear. I feel.
For the first time, he smiled. But it wasn't a happy smile.It was the kind that belongs to people who've run out of things to lose.
"Then maybe… you're the only one who understands."
That was the day the boy who played for ghosts left me with something louder than sound.
A question.
Why does sorrow need to be heard to be felt?