Before he had friends at kindergarten, before he knew how much of the world would remain quiet to him, there was *her*.

  His sister.

  Only a year older. Not loud. Not bold. Just... steady. She didn’t talk much either—not to strangers, not unless she had to. But when she spoke to him, it was soft, simple, and enough. They understood each other in quiet ways most others missed.

  That day, the sky had already started to dim when the other children had all gone home. He sat on the bench near the door with his small backpack in his lap, watching the hands of the clock crawl forward. His educators glanced around, uneasy. His father hadn’t come.

  They called.

  No answer.

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  And then the door opened.

  There she was.

  His sister. Wearing her school jacket, hair a little messy from rushing, cheeks red from the wind.

  “Papa forgot,” she said flatly. Not surprised. She turned to the educator. “I’ll take him.”

  The adult hesitated, then nodded.

  He stood and followed her without a word. She didn’t wait for permission—just turned and stepped onto the path, hands stuffed in her sleeves.

  The air was cold. Leaves scraped across the sidewalk. She walked ahead, but not too far. Always just within reach.

  “You okay?” she asked once, not looking back.

  He nodded.

  That was enough.

  They passed street corners, fenced yards, and shuttered windows. Her pace was even. Calm. When a car passed too close to the curb, she put her arm out slightly, like a shield.

  He looked up at her.

  She was quiet.

  Just like him.

  But stronger, somehow. A presence in the silence.

  Then—*honk.*

  A car rolled up slowly behind them. Their father leaned out the window, eyes wide, voice rushed.

  “There you are! I lost track of time—come on, get in.”

  Their sister paused, turned slowly.

  “You forgot us,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah… I know,” their father replied, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry. Hop in.”

  She opened the front door. He climbed into the back seat. The car started moving. The radio buzzed softly. Their father spoke about traffic, work, stress—but his words felt far away.

  He watched her reflection in the window.

  Sitting still. Silent. Like him.

  But she had come.

  When no one else did.

  Even when the world forgot—

  She didn’t.