Spoken Through Silence

By Varna Rajeshkannan

My eyes fluttered open. The twilight shined right through my square window. Judging by the light, it was 6 pm. I always woke up at this time, in this house 

I groggily reached for my favourite gold-framed glasses on my bedside table. People told me that the gold frames brought the color of my eyes out. But I could never reply ‘thank you’ or smile. Slowly, I slid off the bed to open my window. I loved the feel when I let that sudden gust of autumn air crash onto my face, as I held onto the white window sill to steady myself. 

Everyday began the same. 

Yet, that didn’t stop me from hoping that one day I would find someone who would understand me. 

I had someone once. But she didn’t stay. 

I jerked my head to my bedside table again to spot my best creation: a mini wax sculpture of a tiny bird caught mid-flight, one wing deliberately lower than the other to symbolize the memory of my best friend. My only friend. 

Aurelia. 

She flew away without goodbye—but not from my heart. 

Slowly, I stepped across the room to the shelf. Another sculpture stood there: a little girl's leg lifted high up in mid-air to show liveliness and excitement. I made it the day I was accepted to work as curator at Tate Modern. 

All my sculptures were made after one significant event that had taken place in my life. Each one represented an emotion: happiness, sadness, anger, loss, excitement. The miniscule size of my wax sculptures was a symbol of how reserved or small I seemed in the eyes of others. However, inside, I was exploding with emotions, thoughts, comebacks and regrets I carried like stones. 

Not being able to say what I thought on the spot was a big burden. I felt unheard. My voice didn't matter. 

Like I was trapped. 

A teardrop rolled off my cheek and landed silently on the wooden tiles of my room. 

I walked over to my standing mirror, stared at myself, as if, if I stared longer, Aurelia would return to my life. But all I could see was my own reflection: olive skin, dark hair, green eyes behind gold frames.

I looked completely worn out. There was no way I could go out like this. With my night shift at Tate Modern starting in 30 minutes, I was a girl behind her schedule. I peeled my eyes from the mirror, now staring at my closet, thinking of what to wear. 

******************* 

I paced down the street, eager to get home. Night shifts at Tate Modern drained me. I am not sure if they were hard for everyone, but I found it nearly impossible to sleep during the day. 

I was grateful that my job didn’t require me to rely on anyone else. Depending on people or asking for help was a hassle. 

When I first started, people would ask me questions— either knowing that or they didn’t need the answer or knowing I couldn’t answer it. Now, no one asks why I chose a painting or positioned a sculpture a certain way. 

I presumed they had gotten used to me: always coming in late to work, saying nothing, and leaving early for home. 

I turned the key around the lock. Once. Twice. And I was in. 

I walked down the hallway. Tonight, my apartment felt robbed of life. 

My body relaxed as I entered the bedroom. Instinctively, my hand naturally rested on my window sill. Outside, pastel-colored houses lined-up neatly, each flower shop screaming “Instagram-worthy’ with green vines clinging to the walls. Notting Hill at night always felt special. 

But something caught my attention. 

There was a slight mist on the window. And it was clear that someone from inside created it. I have lived here for years and I have never stood close enough to fog the glass. Someone had been looking out closely. 

I walked to the far end of the room and glanced towards the mirror, stealing a look at the sculpture of the bird. But it wasn’t there. 

My heart raced as if it was going to jump out of my mouth any second. 

Where were my sculptures? Who took them? 

In a moment like this, I really wished I could ask someone, anyone, what's happening? 

I nervously tugged at my sleeves. 

I rushed over to the shelf where the sculpture of the girl once stood. Nothing.

Panicked, I searched my house, checking every room. I wasn’t sure it made sense, but the thought of my sculptures disappearing was driving me mad. 

I rummaged through my bedside table, as if the sculpture might magically appear. It didn’t. 

But when I lifted up the hollow dome of my bedside lamp, beneath I found a small origami crane. 

It had a small red, wax seal on its wing, with a small teardrop symbol. 

What? 

I unfolded the crane to find the letter ‘L’ written in exquisite calligraphy. 

For a second, I was pretty sure it had been typed, but then I saw the inky brushstrokes. The level of precision haunted me. 

Alarmed, I grabbed my phone, not knowing what else to do. My fingers were hovering over the screen. 

I stood frozen, horror plastered across my face. 

Umm… What should I do?! 

Emergency? 999? 111? 101? Why couldn’t I just pick one? Would anyone take a missing set of seven delicate wax sculptures seriously? 

I dialed 101 and hung up after only two rings. How would I even tell them anything? 

******************* 

I waited for what seemed like hours, crammed in the corner of my bedroom, head pressed against my knees. 

With sadness, depression, and desperate self-consoling on repeat, I finally heard the distant wails of sirens. I prayed it was the police. 

I sprang onto my feet and padded to the door, peeking through the peephole just in time to see a neon yellow and dark blue police car parked outside the M1 flats. I raced outside, gesturing toward the ground floor apartment.

The policewoman looked at me like I was mad. 

“Are you alright, miss?” she asked suspiciously, seeing no sign of obvious damage anywhere. Oh great, I thought. 

I stared at her, not knowing how to convey what had happened. The policewoman looked at me like I was mad.She shifted her weight, eyes narrowing as she looked around. 

I opened my mouth a few times as if to say something, then closed it. The policewoman frowned, rubbing her temples. Then, she pointed at me, “I am starting to think that you are not in any trouble.” 

I am, though. 

I pointed to my apartment. 

She glared at me intensely before speaking, “We can only enter your house if you tell us what's wrong or we wouldn’t know what to look for! ” 

I dropped my hands to my sides, defeated. I couldn’t think of any way to share my problem. I led my eyes down to the floor. 

The policewoman sighed once more, shook her head, and turned to tell the others to return to the car. 

No. 

That was it. 

I dragged my feet inside the house. I didn't want anyone to see me hurt and broken down. But no one would’ve noticed I was in distress. s. I was invisible. 

I had no idea how I could have conveyed it. She could’ve waited. Listened. 

Just because I couldn’t put my problems in words, were they not problems anymore? Did they not matter? Does a mute artist or her art works have no value? 

Suddenly, I felt a surge of emotions rise from inside of me. Irritation. Despair. Hurt. All at once. 

“I screamed. I wailed. . But, I heard no sound. No vibrations. Nothing. And that’s what everyone saw of me. 

My eyes flooded with tears.

There was a door in my chest, bolted shut, and no one - not even me - could find the key. It was tormenting me day-by-day! And I can’t take it anymore. 

I collapsed onto my knees. 

It was terrifying to be trapped— in the dark. Not the kind of darkness shown in horror movies. But the kind of darkness that comes from being ignored. The kind where everyone turns their backs on you. When no one can hear you. 

With each thought, I only got angrier. Those sculptures weren't just art pieces. They were my language. The only good way of expressing myself. 

I shoved down books. I threw vases. I knocked over my wax tools.. 

Then I spotted something foreign behind the pot of wax tools that I had flung aside. The object seemed blurred and unclear through the film of tears clouding my vision. 

I squinted and leaned in. 

It was another origami piece in the shape of a frog. 

I knew what it represented. 

It was the sculpture I made the week I got the job at Tate Modern. On the origami's frog basket sat another red wax seal, stamped with a sunburst to show the radiance and opportunity I had felt when I began this chapter of my life. 

Losing the sculptures was like losing the memories. Precious ones. 

Then I remembered—the previous origami had a letter inside. 

Quickly, I unfolded this one and inside was the letter ‘I’. 

What was with all these letters? 

Whoever stole my sculptures had left these origami pieces in the exact same spots where each one had originally stood. Whoever they were… they grasped the meaning behind each sculpture. 

They knew art and appreciated art. 

But why didn’t they appreciate me? 

They saw the art. Not the artist. .

That was wrong. 

I deserved to have my voice heard. Even if mine isn’t loud, this theft proved that someone could hear. 

I was filled with a powerful urge to find out who had stolen my sculptures. They stole my chance at becoming a world-famous artist. 

Why had they taken my memories? 

I turned sharply on my heel. I needed to retrace my steps—to visit each of the seven spots where my seven sculptures had once been. 

******************* 

I stared at all seven origami pieces. 

In the order that I found them, they spelled out ‘LIEECSN’. But it made absolutely no sense. I rearrange them over and over. Nothing. No names. No places. No words Then it clicks. 

SILENCE. 

They spelled out silence. 

At first, I didn’t understand. But then, I recognized it—the only language I spoke, hidden in my art and emotions. 

But still… Why me? 

Because I was inaudible. They thought I was harmless. 

I had to prove them wrong. 

I started thinking: They were stealing art, who could they be? What was their motive? What could they be doing with my sculptures? Where would they be hiding them? 

The answer hit me almost immediately. 

If they were stealing art, they must value it. 

And if they value art, then they would value it preserved—displayed.

They’d want it somewhere it could be seen. 

And where better than a gallery? 

******************* 

I was standing in front of The Third Wall Gallery. 

It was the final one on my list of ‘Shady Galleries I Have Seen Around London’ — and I have seen a lot. 

The building sat on a quiet corner, tiny and worn. It looked like something out of a horror movie. Still, something told me that I was getting closer to the truth. 

The thought alone got me excited. 

The air inside smelled like aged paint and secret — definitely the perfect setting for someone to hide mistakes. 

No influencers. No "photo ops." No gift shop. 

Just a silent girl in the back, sketching on a paper bag. 

I stood still. 

My eyes scanned the space, searching. 

But nothing looked like mine. 

Nothing was made of wax. 

Nothing familiar. 

I stood, smack-dab in the middle of the studio. 

I was taken aback. I was sure that my sculptures were here. Because this was the last gallery. The last one. The last strand of hope. All gone. 

Disappointment didn’t even begin to describe it. I spun around, just as fast as my hopes had gone down. 

*******************

I was lying sideways on my bed, scrolling through my phone for watercolour pencils. Shopping for art supplies always made me feel better. 

For me, art is therapy. 

Art is strength—and weakness. 

Then an ad caught my eyet: 

‘Mini Wax Sculpture! Handmade by French Artists. Buy Yours 2day!’ 

My eyes twitched. It felt like a rope twisting in my gut—something small and alive had awakened. . 

I clicked the ad;it led to an illegal website. 

Black background. White serif text. No menus. Just a gallery of images loading one by one. My heart pounded like a war drum. 

There they were. My sculptures. All seven. 

Each was tagged, "RARE" or "EXPRESSIONIST MASTERPIECE" or worse—"UNSIGNED, ANONYMOUS GEM." 

I stared, unblinking. 

The bird caught mid-flight. The girl with her leg raised. The one I sculpted the night Mum left. They were here. 

Under assumed names in the wrong prices and wrong hands. 

I scrolled. 

"Collector's Pickup Only." 

Location: [Redacted] - Shipped to buyers upon receipt of confirmation. 

Message to Seller: Type Here 

I typed: 

"I would like to purchase the bird sculpture. I believe it is mine."

I deleted the last line. No need to scare them. Not yet. 

Instead, I wrote, 

"Can I pick it up in person?" 

My finger hovered. 

Send. 

Then I waited. 

The silence in my room was so oppressive, it seemed as though it was crawling the walls. A reply: 

"Midnight. Dockyard Lane, iron gate at the back. Come alone." 

My blood felt cold. But there was another part of me that was boiling over—like a storm I could not contain... 

I seethed with rage; the kind that ignites like fire under your skin. 

I grabbed my bag and shut the door behind me. 

Sketchbook. 

Mini wax tokens. 

Pepper spray — a classic for emergencies. 

******************* 

Dockyard Lane was cooler than usual. Even in summer, the wind had found its way between gravel paths and rusting shipping containers. The gate loomed—industrial, intimidating, overshadowed by aging warehouses. 

I slipped through a gap in the iron gate, a sketchbook pressed to my body. A single distant bulb dangling above a rusty door. 

That was the place. 

Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and varnish. A narrow hallway opened into a room that felt more like some secret shelter than a gallery. The light was poor, the walls concrete, and every table groaned under strange, evocative pieces - sculptures, paintings, installations.

And there - under glass cases - my sculptures. 

I inched closer. Every single one of them reclined on black velvet, their placards printed in English and French. 

“La Fille en Espoir” - The Girl in Hope 

”L’Oiseau en Vol” - The Bird in Flight 

Five more. Rebranded, Renamed. No mention of me. 

I felt betrayal rise within me. 

I rummaged in my bag and pulled out my sketchbook. On a blank page, I began sketching furiously. I drew fast, hard strokes capturing the room, cocky placement of the sculptures. And… I added even the tears that I was close to shedding. 

Then—a voice behind me. 

”I thought you would arrive.” 

I turned sharply. 

A man. Mid-thirties maybe. Shaggy hair. A scarf around his neck like someone from an artist colony in Montmartre. He wasn't surprised to see me. That alone was unsettling. 

"Never met an artist like you," he said. "You don't speak, but your work — your work screams." I glared. 

"I didn't steal them," he added quickly. "I…gathered them. Saved them. Your work deserved admiration." 

I scribbled a reply and held up my sketchbook: 

You broke into my house., and took them away.. Do you think taking them away means admiration? 

He flinched, barely. 

”What is admiration, then?” 

I wrote again.

You stole pieces of me. My friend. My memories. Art doesn't exist without the artist. And an artist is nothing without their art.. . 

Silence. 

I scribbled another set of words. 

I have been going through a lot of emotional turmoil without my memories. Which you took away from me! The artist deserves admiration just as much as the art. 

Then he spoke, 

“I know. But I didn’t mean harm.” He got the words out like a rush. His eyes darted hesitantly around the room. 

I felt a pang of suspicion. 

A bead of sweat ran down the side of his forehead. 

“Please don’t call the police,” he pleaded. “I’m not someone who finds joy in others’ pain.” 

I raised one eyebrow as a sign to continue to explain his side of the story. “I’m a fan. No one paid attention to your work. I wanted to get it recognition, a proper audience.” 

You never thought that “I” needed the recognition? 

His tone was soft, but his words were bullets to my calmness. A scream bloomed inside me. I dug into my bag and retrieved the ring of wax tokens. I showed him the red one - fury. He glanced. “I didn’t realize until you told me. You don't have to be mad now.” Then, the black one - sorrow. 

This time he looked away. But, I kept my own gaze on him. 

He exhaled slowly. 

”I left a sculpture for you,” he paused. “A new sculpture. From me. I hoped you might understand it.” 

I grabbed my pencil and carved lines on the page: 

This is not what I need.

He sighed, put both his hands up in the air. 

”Okay. You can have your sculptures back.” 

Relief passed through me like a breeze after a summer blackout. 

******************* 

At home, I placed the sculpture on my bedside table. 

My window was slightly open. I inhaled the scent of ripened apples drifting in. 

It was small. Wax, like mine–but different: A miniature dome, with multi-colored dots suspended in mid-air - trapped, as if frozen in the moment before bursting. Feelings, unspoken. Words, unsaid. 

But trying to break free. There was a small note attached. 

You finally spoke. 

And beneath that, a wax seal. A new symbol - a spiral encompassed by light. 

I still had no idea who he truly was. Whether a threat or just desperate to be understood. But I did know one thing: somebody had heard me. At last. 

Through the silence.

By Varna Rajeshkannan