When the music is silent

Elio Academy. The evening of the first day. The sky outside the dining hall windows was heavy, with shades of gray and charcoal. The rain didn’t come, but the air remained damp, as if the city had just held back its tears. The light in the hall was warm, diffused — just like the voices around: restrained, sometimes uncertain, like those of people who hadn’t yet realized if they could relax here. The ceremonial dinner at Elio Academy was not a celebration in the usual sense. There was no music. No fanfares. But something important was in the air — a transition. An evening when newcomers sat together for the first time among those who had already walked the path before them. An evening when loneliness ceased to be the only option. Rumi entered the hall hesitantly. Zoey followed behind, her steps so confident that it made Rumi want to match their rhythm. “You don’t like crowds, do you?” Zoey asked quietly, without pressure. Rumi nodded. Her lips were pressed tight, her gaze clung to the light spots on the floor, avoiding looking at faces. “Don’t worry. There’s no need to speak if you don’t want to.” The words, whispered, sounded soft — like a promise. The tables were long, arranged in a U-shape so that no one sat alone. Groups of newcomers were already gathered: some ate silently, some whispered, some were already laughing — nervously, excitedly, as if trying to silence the quiet. Zoey led Rumi to one of the tables where several cadets and mentors were already seated. The faces were unfamiliar but not hostile. A lanky guy with thick lashes raised his eyebrows when he noticed them. “Oh, Zoey. Is this your charge?” Zoey nodded: “Rumi. Rumi, this is Sean, the coordinator group mentor. Even those who can read minds are afraid of him.” “Only on weekends,” he muttered, slightly smiling. “Hey.” Rumi nodded back, unsure what to do. She carefully sat down at the table. Zoey sat close but unobtrusively. Her elbow almost touched Rumi’s, but didn’t invade her space. It was simply there — beside her. The food was simple but warm: stewed vegetables, rice, spicy soup with herbs, baskets of bread. But even this smell — homely, enveloping — seemed to Rumi something too… kind. Too alive for a place where she seemed she should be hiding. “Be careful not to choke,” Zoey softly said as Rumi started eating. “This isn’t an exam. Just dinner.” “Just dinner…” Rumi repeated almost inaudibly. She felt the tension ease. Not vanish — just stop pressing. As if someone had lifted a blanket off her chest and let her breathe a little deeper. Voices echoed around. Someone shared stories from their past life. Someone — how they ended up here. Different accents, speech tempo, emotions. And it was all within the norm. No one raised their voice. No one demanded confessions. Rumi listened — and at some point caught herself not wanting to leave. Not yet. Not right now. Zoey spoke little. Sometimes exchanging a few words with other mentors, but mostly listening. Drinking warm tea. There was no tension in her movements — only focus, as if she was still learning to be here, among people, like the other newcomers. “Do you… like this place?” Rumi quietly asked when someone nearby laughed. Zoey nodded slowly. “Not everything. But I know why I’m here.” “And before? You were a hunter, right?” Zoey’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no detachment. Rather — caution. “I used to be many things,” she said quietly. “But that’s not everything that matters.” She fell silent, bringing the cup to her lips. Then, without looking: “And you? Do you want to be a hunter? Or do you just want to be famous?” The question was direct but not hostile. As if she were simply asking which hand Rumi found easier to hold her cup with. Rumi clenched her hand under the table. Her fingers touched the ring. “I’m not sure I can be who they want me to be.” “And who do you want to be?” “A person. Someone who isn’t feared. And isn’t destroyed for stepping out of line.” Something flickered in Zoey’s eyes. Not pity. Not sympathy. But rather — understanding. “You’re already more than they think,” she said softly. “And less than you fear.” At some point, one of the cadets suggested a game: to name, in turn, three things they were afraid of but that no one knew about. It was unofficial. Optional. But people started sharing. “I’m afraid of being alone in the forest.” “I’m afraid of losing my hearing.” “I’m afraid I won’t become important to anyone.” Rumi listened. Then, when it was her turn, she looked at Zoey. Zoey didn’t nod. Didn’t discourage. She simply waited. “I’m afraid there’s… too much of the ‘other’ in me,” she said quietly. No one laughed. No one asked for clarification. And Zoey answered — almost in a whisper: “Sometimes the ‘other’ is just a part of us we haven’t gotten used to yet.” When the dinner ended and the hall began to empty, Rumi didn’t want to be the first to stand. Didn’t want to go back to the silence of her room. But she also couldn’t stay there forever. “Let’s go,” Zoey said softly. “Today you did more than you think.” On the way back, they didn’t speak. But the silence no longer felt empty. It was warm. Measured. Like a fabric someone held between their fingers, warmed by their breath. And at the corner, when the light from the window fell on Zoey’s face, Rumi caught herself thinking: maybe the shadow inside her — isn’t all of her. And if even Zoey, with her past, with her scars, with her silent gaze, could live and be here, then… maybe she could too.