Each day he saw her he transposed exactly what he would say to her. Sometimes he rolled them over and over in his head. Sometimes the words came swiftly as he scratched them on loose parchment in rows of Indian ink. But she never heard these words. She never read them either.
For she never crossed his threshold, and he never ventured beyond the shop's battered door. And so day after day, with all the words in the world hanging between them, the only thing they shared, was silence.