He walked. He always walked, because it was the only thing he knew how to do. His bare feet dragged along the ground, slow and careful. He had no goal nor destination. Instead, he wandered on, a homeless dog looking for its owner, a child lost in a crowd.

No one knew who he was, and he knew no one. For everyone else, he was a ghost; a mannequin controlled by the hands of God, walking tirelessly onward. But to one, he was more than that. To one, he mattered.

This time, the boy would approach him. This time the boy would ask him, not through voice but through ink. Because they both knew what it was like to be at a loss. Because they both knew what it felt like to forget the words that once filled their minds to the brim.

They both knew what it was like to be speechless.