Voiceless – a short story

Every morning began the same way for us, like the world itself couldn’t start turning until she stirred. She always woke up well before the sun would rise. The house was quiet but alive with the soft sounds of her routine—the rustle of blankets, the creak of her bedroom door, and finally, the steady shuffle of her slippers on the wooden floor. I’d hear her footsteps before I’d see her, the faint smell of lavender from her bedside drawer lingering in the air.

She would wobble over to my bed, bend down, and plant a kiss on my head. “Good morning, Charlie,” she’d whisper, her lips curling into the softest smile.

“Good morning,” I’d reply.

While she freshened up in the bathroom, I’d savor the last moments of drowsiness, stretching lazily as I waited for her to finish. When she stepped out, her silver hair was always neatly tied into a bun, her housecoat wrapped snugly around her with spectacles perched perfectly on her nose. “Time to start the day, isn’t it?” she’d say with a gentle smile.

In the kitchen, she moved with quiet determination, the kind of efficiency that spoke of years of practice. She’d pour herself tea—always chamomile—, switch on the old radio, and put bread in the toaster. I’d plop onto the couch by the kitchen, watching her and sleepily waiting. The kettle would sing its shrill tune, and the toaster would click, releasing the comforting aroma of bread.

I grinned and licked my lips as I watched her bring the food to the couch. She settled into the armchair and placed the bowl in front of me — a slice of bread, crisp bacon, and a few pieces of apple. While I ate, she rocked back and forth in her chair, sipping her tea and listening to the radio.

“Light winds today, and for the first time in weeks, Short Hills will not be experiencing any rain. Enjoy the sunlight while it lasts, expected rains from tomorrow.” the radio voice said.

I always wondered why weather was so important to everyone, how did it matter if it was rain or light? As long as we can go out and play, what else was there to worry about?

After breakfast, we’d head to the backyard. The air was always crisp in the mornings, filled with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. She loved her garden; it was her pride and joy. She’d kneel by the flowerbeds, her hands brushing dirt off the petals and stems. She’d talk to her roses like they were old friends, coaxing them to grow with words of encouragement.

“A little more sun, that’s what you need,” she’d murmur. Then she’d turn to me with a glint in her eyes and say, “Come on Charlie, bring out your ball. It’s good weather! Let’s play.”

Her laughter echoed through the yard as I played with the ball. Even when I toppled the watering can or carefully watched the bees hover over flowers. Her laughter was light and airy, the kind that made the world feel a little brighter.
When she got tired, she’d sit on the old wooden bench under the birch tree, patting the space beside her. After I had run around enough and gotten my legs dirty, I’d go and sit next to her. She’d pull out her phone and dial a number that rarely seemed to answer. The ringing would go on and on, until she sighed and left a message.
“Hello, my dear girl,” she’d say softly. “Try and answer my call sometime, won’t you? We don’t talk enough. How are you and George? When will you visit us? I need you. Charlie needs you.”

And then, like every morning, she’d place the phone on her lap and purse her lips. Her eyes would glisten with unshed tears, and I’d inch closer, giving her a kiss on her cheek. Those moments felt sacred, as though time had stopped just for us. Every morning was the same, and I loved it that way.

The world could change a thousand times, but as long as her slippers shuffled across the floor at dawn and her laughter filled the garden, I was content. No one loved me the way she did. Not her daughter. Not George. They had given me up when I became too much for them. But she had taken me in. She had chosen me.
Every day was routine, and I was content.

Until today.

This morning, something felt off. I knew it the moment I heard her footsteps, heavier than usual, dragging in a way that made my ears prick up. She didn’t pause by the window. Didn’t comment on the weather. When she reached the kitchen, she gripped the counter, her knuckles white, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
Something was wrong.

I moved closer, watching her carefully. She reached for her teacup but froze halfway, her hand clutching her chest. The cup slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor. She sank to her knees, her face contorted in pain, and I darted to her side.

“Are you okay? Please get up,” I tried to say.

Her hand trembled as it brushed against me, her eyes fluttering open for a moment. “Call someone,” she whispered.

I bolted out of the house and looked around, trying to get anyone’s attention. Two people walked by, and I called out to them, begging them to stop. They didn’t. They ignored me. Why?

I screamed until my throat burned, but no one came.

I raced back to her, circling her still body, nudging her again and again. She didn’t move. Her breathing was shallow, her face pale. I lay beside her, pressing against her, hoping my warmth might do something, anything.

“It’s…okay,” she whispered, though her voice was weak, almost inaudible. Her hand felt limp, and panic surged through me. She looked at me through her half-shut eyes and plastered on a smile. “It’s alright Charlie. Your grandmother loves you very much.” She said.

I cried; I didn’t know what to do. Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes. Time felt strange, heavy, and endless. When she didn’t wake, I rested my head against her chest, listening to the faint, uneven rhythm of her heart. It was there, but it was weak.

I stayed by her side, unable to leave her, unwilling to let her go. The house felt unbearably quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your chest and makes it hard to breathe.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the floor, I made a wish. I didn’t know how to put it into words, but I felt it deep in my chest, a longing so fierce it burned.

In our next lives, I hoped the universe would be kinder. That I’d be more than a shadow at her feet. That I wouldn’t be a dog but a human. Just once…so I could hold her hand, call for help, save her the way she’d always saved me.

For now, all I could do was wait. Wait for someone to come, wait for her to wake, wait for the world to feel right again. I curled up beside her, my body shielding hers, and whispered a silent promise to the universe: in this life or the next, I would protect her. Somehow, I would make it right. I wouldn’t be voiceless.