Alia had been working as a janitor in the bank for three months now. Every day, she arrived early and left late, quietly doing her job without asking for attention or praise. She wore a simple headscarf that covered her hair, and modest clothes that blended into the background. Most people barely noticed her. Some employees whispered behind her back, calling her “mute” because she never spoke a word.

One afternoon, a young manager came by, looking annoyed.

“Hey, mute! You missed a spot over there,” he said, pointing to a corner that was already clean.

Alia didn’t respond. She simply bent down, wiped the corner again, and moved on. Her silence was not from rudeness but from something deeper—something nobody understood.

After work, Alia returned to her small apartment. She had a routine: feed her little fish, cook a simple meal, and then paint. She loved watercolors. Her paintings were delicate, full of colors and life—yet she never showed them to anyone. Art was her secret world, a place where her voice could be heard without words.

But at night, the memories came back. The nightmares haunted her dreams relentlessly.

She saw the fire. She felt the smoke choking her lungs. She heard the screams of a burning building. That night, nine years ago, she had saved a little boy trapped in an apartment fire. She ran into the flames without hesitation, pulled him out, but not without paying a heavy price. Severe burns covered her neck and throat, stealing her ability to speak.

Her silence was a reminder of that night.