Silence marks Lisa's existence. Since that day it's as if she's gone both deaf and mute. The only sound in her life comes from Nine's Ipod, a blast of color in her monochrome life.

It still hurts. Each day she's reminded of the terror twins who ruined her life. That's what the media theorizes at least. Everyday the news discuss her boys, arguing over the validity of Shibizaki's statement. Some laud them as heroes, others condemn them as villains. In all honesty, Lisa can't stand it. Still she watches those horrible, horrible programs all the same.

Their voices are like static, mindless and incoherent. Lisa barely notices them and instead concentrates on the videos and pictures they occasionally show. They can never capture Twelve's lovely curls or Nine's beautiful eyes, all the images are of their Sphinx counterparts, but she still adores them all the same.

She's starting to forget them. Not their entire existence, but little details. How Twelve said her name, all the time's Nine smiled at her. It's stupid, but it scares her so much. Lisa wants to hold onto those summer days forever, but she fears, they'll slip away with her noticing.

So she continues to never speak, but follows the news about them religiously. Shadows murmur concerns, but still the voices are static. She doesn't care, can't care. Before the summer that turned her life upside down, she was nothing. And now she's back to nothing again. These dead boys give her purpose, so she vows to remember them for the rest of her life.

One day, Shibizaki comes and talks with her. He hasn't forgotten the ghost of a girl the world lost interest in a few weeks ago. However, his voice is static just like everyone else. Occasionally she can pick out a word or two, but Lisa remains alone. She nods when prompted, and shrugs the rest of the time. These conversations are meaningless, and the music of icy lands is calling out to her. But as she plops her ear buds in, the static clears up for the first time.

"Would they want you to live like this?"

Brown eyes widen as she looks at him for the first time. Really looks at him. Tiredness is plain for the world to see, yet determination still radiates from him. He hasn't given up.

"Miss Mishima, don't you think they'd want you happy?" His voice comes out quieter, more somber.

Lisa opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. So instead she cries and cries, though she doesn't know why. Shibizaki doesn't do anything but hand her a tissue. Still Lisa appreciates the gesture, and once she starts to calm down, she tries to give all her attention to him.

However, this time there is neither words or static. Instead he slides over a small, beaten up notebook. She opens and finds only a few words.

I have to go now, but I'll be back in a week. Write anything you want to tell me in there.

When Lisa looks back up, the detective has already vanished as if he was a ghost.

For the next week, Lisa stays glued to the little notebook. It's odd, but it still intrigues her. Words have never been her strong suit, yet she feels compelled to write something. Still what could she write without breaking down? Her life, her thoughts are too jumbled and confusing to talk about, so she talks about the only thing she can, her boys.

Twelve said he could see colors when people spoke. I forget what the condition was called, but he said my voice was pale yellow. He said it was rare, and for some reason it made me happy.

The pen stops as Lisa examines her work. It looks insignificant and useless, but something about it makes her feel less numb. So she continues to watch the programs and news about the Sphinx duo (For a day it had been a trio), and write about whatever pops into her mind.

Nine was cold, but not uncaring. He was always saying I didn't belong, but on that last day he didn't seem to hate me. He smiled at me a few times and even shared his music with me. I still have that music now. We were never close, but I still treasure it all the same.

Twelve rode a motorcycle. I rode with him a few times. The first time was terrifying; I had just jumped out of a building. However the next time wasn't that bad. It felt like I could fall off any second, but I didn't care. The only I could focus on was our laughter caused by nothing.

Nine and Twelve showed their emotions in different ways. I didn't know anything abut them, still I never felt unsafe. They saved my life multiple times, even though nobody would care I was gone. And though I heard whispers about sending me away, they never did that. I wasn't a hostage, but a guest. A normal girl who they let in to their short lives.

More and more words fill the pages, til the notebook is brimming to the top with stories and faded memories of the two boys. It didn't paint them as terrorists, but as normal people. People who lived and breathed and bleed just like everyone else. Once Lisa reread it all, a strange feeling inside her stir. She had to tell Shibizaki this, with her own voice.

So this time Lisa is ready when Shibizaki comes back and visits her. Her grip is vice-like around the notebook, turning her knuckles eggshell white. Still she presents it to him as if it's a fragile relic, one that would disappear any second.

Shibizaki plucks it gently out of her hands and examines the messy characters. He doesn't react to the stupid stories of burnt food and kickball. The only sign of life from him is the steady tapping of his fingers on his right leg.

It seems like an eternity later, his voice comes through again.

"Why do you want to tell me these things?" The question almost makes her lose ever ounce of bravery she's mustered, yet Lisa manages to stand firm. With a deep breath, she tries to force herself to speak once again.

"They told us..." Her words are creaky from disuse. "To remember them. In a year, no one but use will care about them, un-unless I do something."

"You want everyone else to be able to remember them as well. The real Nine and Twelve." Shibizaki pieces together her meaning easily.

She nods vigorously at that. "This way..." Lisa pauses, feeling stupid voicing such an idealistic notion. "They will live forever. Even after we die." Lisa looks down, ashamed of herself. However soon she feels a rough hand pat her head.

"Miss Mishima, I'm no writer, but I might be able to help. Mark my words, I'll try to make sure they won't be forgotten either."

Tears once again fill her eyes, but they don't hold the sadness from last week.

This time, Lisa smiles.

A.N. Listened to Poet by Bastille and it made me think of my daughter and terrorist children