The file was heavier than it should have been. Not in weight, but in content.

Dr. Kim Taehyung sat alone in the small office assigned to him, a single lamp burning against the dusk. The folder on his desk was marked in bold red: “Patient #214 — Male, 14 years old.”

He opened it, expecting the neat clinical summaries he had studied countless times in medical school. Instead, he was met with a collage of pain—fracture reports, faded photographs of bruises, psychological assessments scribbled with words like trauma, severe withdrawal, suspected long-term abuse.

Taehyung’s eyes moved down the lines of the report:

Multiple rib fractures, untreated for days.

Cigarettes burn along the forearms.

History of malnutrition.

Repeated nightmares, violent night terrors.

Selective mutism developed after age eleven.

There were darker notes too, written in hurried, almost desperate handwriting from previous doctors:

“The patient refuses to speak. Avoids eye contact. Exhibits signs of deep mistrust and paranoia. When touched unexpectedly, he reacts violently—as if defending himself from an unseen enemy.”

Taehyung turned another page. His chest tightened. Attached was a drawing, messy and childlike, done in black crayon. It showed a small stick figure curled in a corner while towering shadows loomed above it. No faces. Only hands—cleaned fists, raised belts, reaching claws.

He exhaled slowly, setting the picture aside.

The boy had been in the hospital for months. No progress. No connection. His parents—if they could be called that—were under investigation, but the damage was already carved into the boy’s bones, into his silence.

Taehyung leaned back in his chair, the ticking of the clock pressing against his skull.

This wasn’t just another case file. This was a child who had been broken piece by piece, and handed to him like shattered glass.

For the first time since his residency began, Taehyung felt doubt gnaw at him.

Could he reach someone so far gone?

Or was this boy already lost to the darkness that raised him?

He closed the file, but the black crayon drawing still burned behind his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would meet the boy.

Tonight, he could only prepare himself for the weight of silence.

# NEXT DAY #

The door creaked open.

The boy’s head snapped up instantly, eyes wide, body curling tighter into the corner. His knees locked against his chest, arms wrapping around them like chains. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe—just stared, as though the very act of looking away might get him hurt.

From the doorway, Dr. Kim froze. The case file hadn’t prepared him for this. The notes had been cold, clinical: selective mutism, trauma, paranoia. But seeing it—seeing a child shrink into himself like prey cornered by a predator—was something else entirely.

When Taehyung took one slow step inside, the boy flinched violently, as if the air itself had struck him. His fingers clenched the fabric of his pants until his knuckles blanched white. A thin sound slipped past his lips, half-breath, half-panic, before vanishing back into silence.

Taehyung’s chest tightened. He kept his movements deliberate, quiet, setting a chair in the middle of the room. The scrape of metal on the floor made the boy’s eyes flicker upward for a fraction of a second—wild, frantic, like a hunted animal scanning for escape. Then his gaze dropped again, head pressed hard into his knees.

He’s terrified of me, Taehyung realized. Not just me—of anyone. Of what people mean. Of what they’ve already done to him.

The boy’s breathing was uneven, every inhale jagged, every exhale shaking as though it burned. He made himself smaller, smaller still, shoulders trembling against the wall.

Taehyung sat. He didn’t approach, didn’t speak right away. He knew words could cut deeper than silence. He watched, and he thought of the file, of the drawing in black crayon, of the line that said no guardians. Alone. Abandoned. Fourteen years old, already older in pain than Taehyung himself had ever been.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, careful:

“I’m Dr. Kim. I won’t touch you. I won’t force you to talk. I’ll just stay here.”

The boy didn’t respond. His eyes stayed hidden, his body wound tight like a knot that refused to loosen.

But Taehyung stayed anyway, the weight of the boy’s silence pressing on him like stone.

He’s not a case, he thought. He’s a child. A broken one—but still a child.

And At that moment, he knew this room would become the place where he would either reach the boy… or watch him disappear further into the dark.

The staff lounge was dim, the coffee stale, and the silence heavy. Dr. Kim Taehyung sat across from a man in his late thirties, his white coat unbuttoned, his dark hair slightly disheveled. This was Dr. Seokjin, the boy’s previous psychiatrist.

Between them laying the same file Taehyung had studied the night before, its edges worn from years of being handled.

“You’ve read it,” Seokjin said quietly, his voice lined with exhaustion. “But files never tell the whole story, do they?”

Taehyung shook his head. “No. They don’t. Those people, who are they, who did this to a small child."

Seokjin leaned back, arms folded, eyes distant. “That boy… he isn’t like the others. He doesn’t respond to anything. No therapy methods, no communication exercises. Nothing. those scare are not only in his but his soul is also wounded."

Taehyung hesitated. “Selective mutism can take time. With the right trust—”

Seokjin gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Trust? Doctor, this child doesn’t even know what that word means. Every adult in his life hurt him. Used him. Broke him. Rape him. By the time he was admitted here, he had already built walls so high that no one could climb them.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightened. He remembered the boy’s body locked in the corner, the way he had flinched at the sound of the chair dragging across the floor.

Seokjin closed his eyes and he still remembered that night when he first saw that boy wounded, scared, almost dead.

“Then why refer him to me?” taehung question brought back him from his train of thoughts.

For the first time, Seokjin’s expression softened, his gaze steady on Taehyung. “Because I failed. I tried everything I knew—talk therapy, art therapy, even silent sessions where I just sat with him. Nothing. He never spoke a word. He never moved from that corner unless staff forced him to. But…”

He trailed off, his brow furrowing slightly. “There were moments. Small ones. A flicker of his eyes, the way he tensed differently at certain words, certain sounds. Moments that told me… maybe he isn’t completely unreachable.”

Taehyung leaned forward, listening.

“That’s why I referred him,” Seokjin continued. “Not because I believe in miracles, but because I believe sometimes a new presence can change something. Even if it’s only a crack in the wall he’s built.”

Silence settled between them, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent light above.

Finally, Seokjin stood, gathering his notes. His voice was quiet when he spoke again. “Most of the staff think he’ll never recover. That he’s too far gone. But if you can prove them wrong…” He paused, looking Taehyung directly in the eye.

“…then you’ll be the first person in that boy’s life to give him what no one else has ever offered.”

Taehyung’s throat felt tight. “What’s that?”

Seokjin’s lips curved into the faintest, saddest smile. “Hope.”

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.