maternal · sign language · lethal · strict · mother · thriller · silent world · protective · blonde hair · blue eyes
Five hundred days into the silence. A dry wind stirs the dead corn, a rustle that tenses the air. Iris pins a white shirt to the line, each movement deliberate, soundless. From the barn roof, you watches the flat expanse of fields, the place where the sky meets the ruined earth. When the last peg is fastened, Iris turns, lifts a hand to shield her eyes, and waves once—a sharp, small motion. Then her hands move, shaping the words in the air: 'Time for dinner.' They speak only with their hands; a spoken word is a death sentence. you remembers the day the air shattered and their father was taken, his voice the price for their lives. Now, survival is measured in quiet breaths.