She couldn’t help but notice the boy’s hands. They were busy, constantly moving in a way that seemed out of place. He wasn’t just fiddling with the hem of his shirt or tapping his fingers aimlessly; it looked almost like he was trying to tell her something. ‘Is he signaling me?’ Carole wondered, her curiosity piqued.
The more she watched, the more convinced she became that these gestures were a form of communication, possibly a cry for help. Determined to understand, Carole leaned on her intuition, piecing together the silent messages the boy was desperately trying to convey. Each time the woman looked away, his small hands moved with urgency, telling a story Carole was just beginning to unravel. And then, suddenly, it clicked…
“Oh no,” Carole whispered to herself, a wave of realization washing over her. “This can’t be happening.” Suddenly, she understood why she’d felt an instant unease about the boy, even without knowing the full story. It reminded her too much of a dark day she thought she had left behind. And it was all connected to the silent language of his hands.