The gravel crunched beneath their feet as the educator led him down a narrow path framed by overgrown bushes and patches of soft moss. Her hand held his gently, but firmly—like someone guiding a lost child who hadn't realized he was lost until he'd been found.
They reached the field just beyond the playground, where the kindergarten group was already walking in a line like sleepy ducklings. The children were bundled in coats, their cheeks pink from the chill, chatting, laughing, occasionally chasing each other in short bursts before being wrangled back into formation.
The educator raised a hand and called something out.
He didn't catch the words.
The children turned. A few looked surprised. One or two smiled.
"Hi!" one girl said, waving with her mittened hand.
Another boy nodded. "You're late," he said, not unkindly.
He didn't answer.
He didn't really know how.
Instead, he followed quietly as the educator nudged him gently toward the back of the group. His small boots sank slightly into the damp earth as he fell into step behind the others. The chatter resumed. Laughter picked up again. But he remained a soft presence at the edge of it all—close enough to see, but too far to feel part of it.
A boy slowed down beside him.
"Were you hiding?" he asked, his voice curious but not mocking.
He looked at him, but didn't speak.
"Okay," the boy said after a moment, and jogged ahead to rejoin the others.
He stared at their backs—how easily they laughed, how freely they shouted and called to each other across the open space. Their voices blurred into a warm, living noise that swirled around him without ever settling *into* him. It felt like standing behind a glass window, watching people talk in a dream he couldn't enter.
Still, it wasn't painful.
Not exactly.
Just distant.
The educator kept glancing back at him every now and then, offering a smile. He nodded to her once, just so she'd know he was still there.
They stopped near a grove of trees where the group spread out to collect leaves and pebbles, pointing at birds and turning over stones. He crouched at the edge, tracing lines into the dirt with a stick, content to watch.
Occasionally, a child would approach him, offering a leaf, a shiny rock, or just a look.
He'd give them a small smile. A nod. Nothing more.
He didn't need to be loud to be present.
But even here, surrounded by other children, he remained a quiet shape in the background of their day—noticed, but not quite *known*.
And that was okay.
He had grown used to silence.
He was learning to carry it