From dark to white

In the silent corners of Paris, where rain falls quietly upon cobblestone streets,

lived a boy named Pierrot.

He shared a small, broken house with his father — a man consumed by grief and alcohol ever since the death of his wife.

Pierrot, born speechless just like his mother, could only communicate through gestures.

His father understands his hand gestures but hates it because it reminds about his dead wife. That’s why he told him that he will write what he wants to say when he wants to speak with his father.

He saw the boy’s silence as defiance, as weakness — and every night, his drunken rage echoed through the house.

> “Work, you useless boy! If you can’t speak, at least earn!”

Pierrot obeyed.

He worked at a small café in the heart of Paris, where laughter and music filled the air — a world far brighter than his own.

Each month, his meager salary vanished into bottles, traded for his father’s brief illusion of happiness.

One rainy afternoon, weak from hunger and exhaustion, Pierrot’s trembling hands slipped —

and a tower of dishes shattered on the floor.

The café went silent.

His manager’s cold voice broke the silence:

> “You’ll pay for this. And don’t come back.”

That night, Pierrot returned home empty-handed, with no job and no money for alcohol.

His father’s fury came like thunder.

The man grabbed a glass bottle and struck him.

Blood trickled down Pierrot’s forehead as he stumbled out into the rain.

He ran.

He didn’t know where.

The city lights blurred through tears until he reached a bridge.

There, he stopped — breath trembling, heart hollow.

Below, the river whispered, inviting him.

He thought of the happy families he had seen in the café — smiling, talking, alive.

> “Who would ever want a filthy, speechless boy like me?” he thought.

> His body leaned forward — but then, a voice inside him whispered:

> “If I die… what will happen to Father?

> How could I face Mother’s eyes after leaving him alone?”

He couldn’t jump.

Pierrot turned to leave the cold stone bench, his heart hollowed by despair, but as he moved to step onto the rain-slicked path, the bench slipped. His feet lost purchase on the wet cobblestones, and he fell backward. His head struck the rough iron railing of the bridge with a sickening thud, and the world dissolved into a smear of grey and black.

He did not know how long he lay there, rain washing the blood from his forehead and mixing it with his tears. When consciousness began to return, it was not the sound of the river that greeted him, but a strange warmth and a light pressure on his shoulder.

"Pierrot... My son, please, promise me you will look after your father when I am gone. He might sink into despair without me."

"Pierrot, open the door! Pierrot, can you hear me? Pierrot!"

"No, Pierrot, listen to no one. Listen only to me... Do not listen to the pain, to the struggles of life. Just listen to me. In this room, we will be safe from the world’s harshness. Please, stay with me a little longer in this room..."

Pierrot did not understand what was happening, but he knew he was resting on his mother's lap. He felt only the comforting warmth of her embrace, feeling good simply because he was there, on her lap. He watched his mother weep. In this haven of comfort, he did not even hear his father’s distant shouts.

"Pierrot, open the door, pleeeease! Leaving your mother alone is not good! Do you hear me, Pierrot, your mother is sick!"

"Pierrot, do you know why your name is Pierrot? Because you are quiet, beautiful, and your best side is your kindness. You are like an angel, Pierrot... When you leave this room, please, promise me you will not change. Remain the angel I know, the Pierrot I have always seen..."

Slowly, Pierrot began to lose the peaceful comfort of his mother's lap, and the voice of his father grew louder, closer.

"P-I-E-R-R-O-T-T-T-T!!!"

Pierrot woke up with a gasp and it was a dream, a small piece of backstory that Pierrot experienced before his mom dies.

He was still on the bridge, but his head was gently propped up, and a piece of white cloth was wrapped around his brow.

He looked up. Standing over him, quiet and still beneath the dim glow of the streetlight, was a girl. Her face was painted white, stark against her black bowler hat and striped shirt. She was a mime.

The girl raised her hands and began to move. In a silent flurry of gestures, she told him the story: of seeing him climb the bench, of his fall, of running to grab his outstretched hand just as he slipped, and of tearing a strip from her own skirt to stanch the bleeding. It was a wordless play, ending with a graceful bow.

Then, the mime extended her open palm, holding out her iconic black hat—the silent signal for payment.

Pierrot’s shame was instant. He fumbled with his pocket, turning it inside out with trembling hands to show the empty, damp cloth. He shook his head slowly, signing with his hands that he had no money.

A flash of disappointment crossed the mime’s painted features, but it quickly melted into surprise as she watched his hands move. Sign language. In Paris, only the silent knew that tongue. For the first time, she had met another.

They sat together on the stone bench, communicating through the fast, fluid ballet of their fingers. Pierrot confessed his failed jump and his shame. The mime listened, then signed back about her own struggles, telling him of her grandmother who had taught her the magic of mime, and whose passing had left her to earn her bread on the streets.

Pierrot signed his final regret: he still owed her for the performance, for the rescue.

The mime paused, a playful glint entering her eye. She signed slowly:

“If you wish to pay me… you can work with me. I need an assistant. I will teach you my art.”

Pierrot was speechless (even in silence). His body shook with a mixture of fear and wild excitement. He, the unwashed boy whom no one would hire, was being offered a job.

The mime misunderstood his pause, mistaking his awe for reluctance. Her white face hardened with a flicker of theatrical coldness. She signed:

“What? Are you ashamed to be my friend?”

The word struck him harder than his father’s bottle ever could. Friend? He had never had one.

Pierrot frantically shook his head, signing rapidly: “N-no! Never! I… I was just… so surprised.”

The mime’s face softened quickly into a gentle, but firm look.

“Good. Then you will meet me here tomorrow. And don’t you dare fail to show. I know curses that would make your feet dance off your legs. My grandfather taught me! So be here, understood?”

Pierrot meekly nodded: "Y-yes."

She gave him a sharp salute. “Until tomorrow, friend. Au revoir.” And she ran off into the night, her white gloves flashing in the dark.

Pierrot raised his hand slightly in return. “Au revoir,” he mouthed silently, a word that felt too heavy to be spoken aloud.

For the first time since his mother’s death, Pierrot was smiling. A faint, uncertain light shone in his eyes. He had a job, and he had a friend. But as he began his walk home, the light dimmed. His father.

He remembered his father’s strict order: "Tell me everything. The streets are dangerous, and you are too easily misled."

What if he refuses? What if he demands I find a real job? I cannot say no to my first friend, to my only chance.

He crept into the broken house. His father was asleep in his chair. As Pierrot tip-toed past, a hoarse whisper cut through the silence:

“Pierrot… where are you? Pierrot, come back.”

Pierrot froze. He knew his father was a harsh man, a cruel man, but the fear in that whispered, drunken call confirmed what he had always believed: beneath the anger, his father still cared.

I will not abandon you, Father. You will see. I will master this art, I will earn more than enough. We will not be poor anymore. I will change our lives. Trust me.

He gently pulled the blanket over his father and retreated to his room. Lying on his cot, Pierrot felt the thrill of opportunity. Today was the first step; tomorrow would be the second.

“Tomorrow, everything changes. Mother… my dear Mother… believe in me. We will not live like this anymore. I know it.”