muted silence. [dee!]

The day felt long as Meira grabbed the harpoon lying by her feet and brought it up to head level. The harpoon was heavy but years of using it had increased her arm strength and it balanced easily in her right hand. She could spot the school of fish swimming her way, and as her eyes closely followed them, she took a deep breath in. Tensing her core, she used her strength and launched the harpoon. If it was a good throw, like the one her father had taught her, she could expect 3 fishes squirming while caught in between the prongs of her harpoon. The best catches were the ones with no holes, but after using the harpoon for so long, Meira preferred using it over the net.

She waded out to retrieve the harpoon, the water reaching a little above her waist. There were only two fishes, but there were also no punctures so Meira smiled to herself. She had already caught the fishes she needed for work, so these two were going to be dinner for her and her father. Her father was much better when it came to fishing, but he had “retired” many years ago when her mother passed away. He gave her some of the knowledge she needed, ever patient as he had to describe with her hands when she could no longer hear his words from the boat. What had once been a needed means of communication became useful when they learned they could communicate from far distances—all that required was that they maintained sight of each other.

But now she worked by herself and there was no point communicating with anyone beside her employer. The sun seemed to be starting to set, so she grabbed her catch and started making her way back. As she reached the dock, she picked up her supplies and heaved everything over her shoulder. She was small, quite petite, but the muscles on her arms and back and legs were hardened with the years and she found she could lift more weight than most people assumed about her. However, it did make her slower and her hearing was so low that she did not hear the steps coming towards her when—“Oof,” she let out, as she fell backward and the supplies dragged her with them.

Meira could hear a sound coming from him, but she wasn’t necessarily sure what he had just said. She shook her head as she pushed herself off the ground and brushed herself off. She was used to getting knocked down, being that she was rather small and most of the fishermen working the docks cleared 6 foot. Still, this was no fisherman. He had a bag with him, a bag that Meira could not clearly see into. Off-guard, she started apologizing with her hands, forgetting that she still had an inkling of a voice however difficult it was to hear it.

To have someone else not speak was new to Meira, almost slightly uncomfortable due the unfamiliarity of the situation. Most people would stumble around their apologies, or if they knew her, would strike up a conversation. The usual reaction was to have words pour out of their mouth; this boy’s mouth seemed as clamped as the bite of…well, she had no reasonable comparison. She could see him try to make sense of her hands, and that was when she realized that he probably had no idea what she was saying. There were some people in the district who also communicated with their hands, but she could never have a conversation with them. It was a different language from hers, one that seemed to be taught in books and clinics. Her doctor had encouraged her to go to one, but she refused and created her own language that was shared on with her father and her doctor.

She lowered her hands, feeling slightly embarrassed for trying to talk to him in a language he probably didn’t understand. What came next lifted her spirits, though. He gave her a small wave and a smile with it. Meira responded in kind, as her eyes narrowed with the lifting of her cheeks. She tapped her mouth twice and pointed at him, asking if he wasn’t able to speak. Her eyes then moved their attention to the bag that he had, and her eyebrows raised as she saw the papers. With the sudden spark of an idea, she rummaged through her pockets until she found a few coins. She walked up to him, gave him a big smile, and pressed the coins into the palm of his hand before reaching down to grab one of the papers.

Tapping her mouth twice and then pointing at herself, she went back to the paper and scribbled words on to it. “I have trouble speaking.” She showed him the papers for a few seconds before, making the same motion that she had at first, and then writing it down again. “Do you have trouble speaking?” She handed him the paper and the writing stylus, a mixture of curiosity and happiness radiating through her. Meira had spent many years trying to utilize the rest of her hearing and the voice that came with it, that the strain made her fatigued. The changes in her hearing was subtle, but she knew that one day it would be gone and she would no longer be able to communicate with “the normals” as she and her father called them. Her father was considered a normal as well, but he could communicate with her through his hands. The rest of the world just didn’t understand. She placed a finger on the palm of her hand, then made a sweeping gesture with the fingertips across the palm. We can use the paper to communicate for now.

The writing mechanism seemed to work as he himself began to use it. Meira’s smile could not grow any bigger, but her spirits were soaring as she watched him respond in kind. It was clear he did not have a language that he used which made her think if he preferred the writing method. It wasn’t until he handed her the paper that she understood. He was not always like this, but when it came to people around their age, his mouth was shut and his tongue was frozen. That explained why he did not rely on his hands as a form of communication. He had a voice, but sometimes it just didn’t work. Meira nodded her head, acknowledging what he had just written before reading the next line.

“Ciaran,” she tried pronouncing it with her own voice. It sounded wrong so she looked back at it him, wondering how to pronounce it. She knew it wouldn’t do much for she would hardly hear it, but she wanted to know how it sounded like in her mind so every time she saw it, she knew who it was. She scribbled down her next words, electing the stylus over her hands this time. “It’s alright. I’m used to it anyway. Should have paid attention to my surroundings.” She gave him an inquisitive look before going back to the piece of paper. “How do you pronounce that? I don’t think I’ve heard or seen a name like that.”

There were many strange names in District 4, but all the ones that were important for her daily life she had heard before her hearing had declined to this point. So now, whenever she saw a new name, she tried to rely on the ones she had heard in the past to sound it out. However, this name sounded too strange for all those years to help. She jumped slightly, realizing she hadn’t introduced herself—or rather she had, but she had done it with her hands earlier when she was trying to apologize. “My name is Meira.” “It’s really nice to meet you”, she added to her scribbles before handing the piece of paper back.

Every time he smiled, Meira could feel the smile spread on her own face. It felt contagious, invigorating, as if she was a child once again and meeting a child her age. Ever since her mother passed away, she had rarely felt this feeling whether it was due to the alcohol or just the lack of conversation. It had been her mother who taught her how to create the children of their friends from work or school. It had been her mother who had encouraged her to give everyone a smile no matter how bad her day was. It had been her mother who had told her that a smile came from the deepest, purest part of the soul and that when it was genuine, the warmth should spread through the whole body. It had been her mother who left too early, and Meira had shut down, no longer feeling that warmth.

But meeting Ciaran made her remember a time when smiles and laughter could still ring in her ears, when she didn’t have to strain to hear her father whisper a joke in her ear. When he showed her the pronunciation, she tried saying it out loud again. “Ciar…an…,” her lips moved as she read the paper. The pronunciation looked little like how it was spelled, which she realized was the difficulty of the name. But now that she knew how to pronounce it correctly, it would no longer trouble her. Ciaran. Ciaran. Ciaran.

She read his scribbles and then pointed at the net. “Work,” she said out loud, moving her lips slowly, hoping he could see the formation of the word. “Fun,” she said as she pointed at the line of fish that was hanging over her shoulder. Her boss did not expect her until the sun had set which meant that when she had caught her quota for the day—which she often did early in the afternoon—she was allowed time to make her own catches. Catching fish calmed her down, gave her something to do. Fishes didn’t require her to speak or listen, just watch. She had learned to use the wind, the tidal patterns, to assist her rather than the sound of rushing water. If anything, the sound of water would have only distracted her.

Meira looked back at the paper to see what else he had written down. He had asked her about the hand motions that she had used. It confirmed her suspicion that he didn’t know the language—of course, he didn’t; it was a very personal language—but had indeed learned a different language. She scribbled back, “I developed it with my father and doctor. I never learned the other language, only used my own.” It had been difficult to develop at first, but her father encouraged her to use it with him over straining to hear him speak. It was rare for them to communicate with their voices to each other now; their hand language was much more efficient for their conversations. “I can teach you a few words, if you would like.” She pointed at her throat, tapped her forehead, and then faced the palm of her hand toward him.

Meira beamed at him as he affirmed that she had said his name correctly. To her, it was a big step to learn names and one she rarely took. Names would be forgotten when she woke up the next morning in her bed, with a slight headache as the sun beamed in. Besides, she had learned all the names that she needed to learn—except for Ciaran’s. There was no necessity in knowing his name and yet, she felt it was important to get it right from the start, as if she was going to see him again. Meira knew the chances were slim what with District 4 being rather large, but she felt hopeful.

She read what he wrote on the paper and waved her hand as if to say that meant nothing. Meira had never liked the other language because there seemed like many technicalities to follow when trying to speak. The language she used with her father relied less on what each twitch meant and more on giving the meaning. Still, it had taken her and her father years to work on it, back when her hearing was only a little dampened. “It’s okay. Just a few words. Nothing complicated.” Of course, it wouldn’t do any good if Ciaran wasn’t willing to try, but for some reason, Meira was hoping that he would say okay.

Meira took a few steps forward and gently took his hands. With his right hand, she gently folded his fingers so that his hand became a fist. She did the same with her own hand and pressed the back of her fist against the back of his fist. “Friends,” she said slowly, hoping that he would hear it. Considering the situation, it seemed fitting to be the first word, even if it was the only word he ever learned. She and her father had learned to use it as a greeting, a sort of way to acknowledge that they would start communicating with their hands. To her, it symbolized more than just being friends. It established a connection that could mean something, and it was not one she often taught other people, mostly because most people did not want to be taught.

The heat of the sun was still on her back, telling her that it had not yet set, but she knew that she would have to leave at some point. She turned back for confirmation and her heart dropped as she how close the sun was to the horizon. Suppressing the dread, she turned back with a smile on her face.

Her smile wavered as she wondered if he was saying something. She could read his lips—a skill that she had also learned—but she couldn’t tell if there was sound coming out of it. Every spoken word always seemed muffled, and as time went by, it became more difficult for Meira to discern what was actually spoken and what was mouthed. It disheartened her a little bit, but she tried to keep herself in good spirits. She was making a friend, something that didn’t happen every day, and he had just said—or mouthed—the word friend.

Ciaran also seemed to have noticed how low the sun was, because he started making some hand motions about leaving or something? Meira wasn’t sure and she couldn’t help but let out a small laugh as she tried to discern what he was saying. It looked like he was talking about the fish but beside that, Meira couldn’t understand. She shook her head with a smile before reading from the paper. She nodded her head when she looked back at Ciaran, before scribbling her own words.

“I don’t know what you said before, but I like this plan here.” She reached down to grab her stuff, throwing it over her shoulder just as she had before she collided into Ciaran. “We might need more paper,” she wrote, handing him a few more coins, before walking off toward the center. Her right hand made a fist to indicate the center of town and then made a slight sweeping motion toward the right, indicating that the direction she needed to headed was right of the center. “My work,” she said in her usual mumbled voice. She waited for Ciaran to collect any other items he had, before giving a questioning look, making sure that he was ready before they walked off.

The walk was mostly quiet, but it was a comfortable quiet, one that Meira didn’t mind. For the first time, it felt like it was quiet because they wanted to be quiet, not because they had to. It helped that District 4 was so picturesque during sunset. The different bands of colors stretched across the darkening sky as it gradually hit the ocean made Meira happy that she was not also losing her eyesight as well. It was one of the most beautiful sights, and her mother often limped to the window to catch it every day until she was too weak to move.

Meira hoped that she wasn’t taking him the wrong direction—he wrote that he had to go back near the center of town—but she enjoyed the company. A part of her was willing to become lost but she knew that was both a ridiculous and a stupid idea. They both had places they needed to be, deadlines to meet. It was selfish of her to want to hold them back any further, and she wanted to punish herself for thinking such selfish thoughts. What type of girl had her parents raised her to be?

And yet, she was not sorry. How often was this type of occurrence going to happen? How many times was she likely to meet someone who could understand her situation, even if it was just a small understanding? They were getting closer to the town center, when Ciaran passed her the piece of paper. Meira stopped her steps so she could read his writing without running into someone or something. Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought about how to translate the whole sentence. There was nothing grammatical about the language she used which made it easier for her to communicate what she was feeling, but harder for her to translate.

There was really no way for her to translate her name—it hadn’t been a problem when it was usually a one-on-one communication between her and her father or her doctor—but the other part of it was easy enough. She placed two of her fingers on her right temple, then touched the palm of her hand with those two fingers, and then laid the back side of her hand on the other hand. She then wrote the translation on the paper. “Touching the fingers to the temple is a way of acknowledgement, or ‘acknowledgement of you’. Touching the fingers to the palm, or the heart of the hand, is a way of saying it with meaning. The back of the hand on the other hand is a way of saying meeting and it is done with two fingers because there are two of us. It says something along the lines of ‘I genuinely acknowledge you, the two of us meeting.’” Meira blushed looking at horrible the grammar was on the piece of paper; it was as if she was reading a story she had written when she was 5 years old.

However, that didn’t deter her from stepping up to him and then reaching to this hands to make the same motion, so he knew how it felt when he made the same motions with his hands.