The Silent ward

A week passed.

Seven long days of visits, seven long days of silence.

Dr. Kim Taehyung came every morning without fail, and every evening before leaving the ward. His presence was steady, almost ritualistic—always the same chair across the room, the same soft greeting, the same silence that stretched between them. Sometimes he spoke in hushed tones, offering pieces of himself, stories that might slip through the cracks of the boy’s defenses. Sometimes he said nothing at all, simply letting the air breathe between them.

But nothing ever reached the boy.

He never lifted his head. He never touched the notebook Taehyung had left on his desk. Food trays returned half-eaten, untouched more often than not. His thin frame grew paler, sharper each day. His eyes—hidden beneath messy strands of hair—never revealed themselves. He kept himself locked in that corner, body curled tight, as if the walls were the only shield he could trust in a world that had betrayed him.

The staff whispered when Taehyung’s back was turned.

He’s wasting his time.

That child is gone.

On the eighth day, the session began no differently.

The hallway was quiet as Taehyung entered, the faint hum of the overhead lights filling the sterile air. He placed a small carton of milk on the desk, his voice low but warm. “I thought you might like this today.”

The boy was there, as always. Curled into himself—knees drawn to chest, arms wrapped tightly, head bowed. But something was different.

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed. The boy’s hands weren’t clasped around his legs like before. They were hidden. Tucked behind his knees. Trembling.

A warning bell rang in Taehyung’s chest. He leaned forward slowly, carefully. “What are you holding?” His tone was soft, cautious, almost like speaking to a cornered animal.

The boy shifted, just enough for Taehyung to see.

And Taehyung’s heart lurched.

A shard of glass. Jagged, sharp, likely broken off from the water cup by his bedside. The edge gleamed faintly under the harsh light.

“Put that down,” Taehyung said carefully, his voice a fragile thread. Not a command, not too loud—gentle, coaxing.

The boy’s head snapped up.

For the first time, Taehyung saw his eyes. Dark, wide, wild. Panic and despair burned there, raw and unfiltered, and it hit Taehyung like a blow to the chest. The boy pressed the shard hard against the thin skin of his wrist. His lips moved, barely parting, shaping a single word that carried no sound.

Enough.

Tears slipped down his pale face, his body trembling violently. Blood welled where the shard scraped his fragile skin.

Taehyung’s own breath caught. His mind screamed for calm, but his hands betrayed him—shaking, open at his sides as he took a cautious step forward. “You don’t have to—”

But he never finished.

The boy’s body gave way. It was sudden, terrifying—like a string snapping after being pulled too tight. All at once, every ounce of strength left him. His grip faltered, the shard clattering to the floor with a hollow ring. His body slumped sideways against the wall, unconscious before Taehyung could even reach him.

“Damn it—!” Taehyung dropped to his knees, heart hammering in his chest. His fingers moved quickly, checking the shallow cut, pressing lightly to feel the boy’s pulse. Weak, but there. Skin cold. Breathing shallow.

He hadn’t been saved by words, or comfort, or even a flicker of hope. He had simply collapsed.

The door burst open at Taehyung’s call. Staff rushed inside, their hurried voices clashing against the suffocating silence that had ruled the room for days. They lifted the limp child gently onto a stretcher, moving swiftly down the hallway toward the infirmary.

The shard of glass lay forgotten on the floor, stained with a thin smear of red.

Taehyung didn’t follow right away. He stood frozen, staring at the space where the boy had been. His hands still shook, his chest still ached with the weight of it.

It wasn’t survival.

It wasn’t trust.

It wasn’t even choice.

It was exhaustion.

And for the first time since taking the case, Dr. Kim Taehyung felt a flicker of fear—not for the boy’s silence, but for the crushing emptiness in his eyes. He wondered, with a sinking dread, if the boy had any will left to keep fighting at all.

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