Page 32 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Why?” The question came out raw. “You're security. You're supposed to report anything suspicious. Anyone else would have read it.”

I held his gaze. “Because it's yours. And you didn't offer to show me.”

He stared at me like I'd spoken in a language he didn't quite understand. Then fresh tears spilled over, tracking down his cheeks, and his shoulders shook with the force of emotions he'd been holding back too long.

I held out the notebook.

His hands shot forward to take it, clutching it against his chest like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe it was.

“Thank you.” His voice was wrecked. “You don't know what this means. If anyone had seen.”

“They didn't. And they won't. Not from me.”

He looked up, and the gratitude in his eyes was almost painful. Like I'd done something heroic instead of just basic decent.

“Why are you being kind to me?” The question was soft, wondering. “I'm difficult. Everyone says so. Fussy and odd and too much trouble.”

“You're not too much trouble.” I stood, knees protesting. “You're just trouble that matters.”

That surprised something out of him. Not quite a laugh, but close. “That's either a compliment or an insult. I can't tell which.”

“Neither can I. Take it however you want.”

He was still clutching the notebook, but some of the desperate tension had drained from his posture. The colour was coming back to his face. His breathing had steadied.

“You should sit,” I said. “Properly. Not on the edge of a chair like you're about to bolt.”

“I'm fine.”

“You nearly collapsed thirty seconds ago. Sit. I'll stand watch.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but couldn't find the energy. After a moment, he shifted back in the chair, letting his spine rest against the back. His fingers loosened their death grip on the notebook, settling it in his lap instead of crushing it to his chest.

Better.

I moved to a position near the window where I could see both the door and the grounds outside. Standard observation post. Habit.

“You don't have to stay,” Art said quietly. “I'm not going to fall apart.”

“Didn't say you were.”

“Then why are you standing there like a sentinel?”

“Because I want to.” The honesty of it surprised me. “And because you scared the hell out of me, finding this thing abandoned in the snow. Thought something had happened to you.”

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “It's from my sister. Bea. She made it for me before I came here. Stitched the cover herself.”

“I saw the initials. The note inside.”

“You said you didn't read it.”

“I didn't read past the first page. Saw the message from B, closed it.” I kept my eyes on the grounds, giving him privacy even while we talked. “She sounds like she knows you well.”

“She's the only one who ever did.” He was running his thumb along the edge of the notebook, a self-soothing gesture I'd seen before. “Everyone else wanted me different. Quieter. More normal. Bea just wanted me to be myself.”

“Sounds like a good sister.”

“She is.” A pause. “I write to her every week. Tell her nothing, of course. Can't tell her anything real. But she writes back with all the news from home, little drawings in the margins, jokes that aren't funny but I laugh anyway because they're hers.”