Lacuna

Ellis stood in the basement workshop of the Addison Museum, cradling the damaged kintsugi bowl between gloved hands. Through the skylight, afternoon sun caught on the gold lacquer veining the ceramic's surface—a spiderweb of precious metal highlighting where the bowl had once shattered. Ellis traced one golden seam with a fingertip, then placed the bowl carefully on the felt-lined workbench.

There were new breaks to address, a mishap during transport from the donor's estate. Ellis reached for the magnifying glass, examining the damage. Repairing objects was straightforward—methodical, precise. Unlike the human psyche, which proved stubbornly resistant to restoration.

The intercom buzzed. Ellis flinched.

"Ellis? You down there? The new catalog proofs need your sign-off before five." Diane's voice crackled through the speaker, that familiar Brooklyn cadence that somehow made even mundane requests sound urgent.

Ellis pressed the response button twice—their established signal for acknowledgment.

"Great. And the director wants to know if the kintsugi pieces will be ready for the installation next week."

Two more clicks: affirmative.

"Perfect. I'll leave the proofs on your desk upstairs." A pause. "And Ellis? Remember we've got that donor lunch Thursday. No hiding in the basement for that one."

Ellis's jaw tightened. Those lunches were always an ordeal—well-meaning patrons who didn't understand why the quiet conservator wouldn't speak, their awkward attempts at inclusion, the inevitable pitying glances. Ellis pressed the button once: negative.

"Come on, you skipped the last two. Director's orders this time." The intercom fell silent before Ellis could respond.

Ellis returned to the bowl, fingers hovering over its surface. The original kintsugi work dated to the 18th century—someone had loved this object enough to mend it with gold rather than discard it.

---

The apartment was silent when Ellis returned home. A one-bedroom on the fifth floor of a pre-war building, walls lined with bookshelves and little else. Ellis hung their coat and set their messenger bag on the counter, removing a brown paper package tied with cotton string. The family music box had arrived from Aunt Judith's storage unit in Arizona—the last of grandmother Nora's possessions.

The note read in Judith's looping script: Ellis—Nora always said this should go to you. Sorry it took me so long to find it. Take care, J.

Ellis unwrapped the package with conservator's hands. The music box emerged: walnut with mother-of-pearl inlay, tarnished brass hinges, something rattling loosely inside. It was smaller than Ellis remembered from childhood visits to grandmother Nora's apartment—those rare occasions when she would wind it and let Ellis listen to the melody, her eyes distant.

The mechanism was jammed, the decorative inlay missing several pieces. Ellis placed it on the kitchen table, beneath the hanging lamp. Another object requiring repair. Another family heirloom broken.

Ellis retrieved their toolbox from the hall closet. Working on their own time now, they gently pried open the seized lid, inspecting the damage. Inside, the brass cylinder was intact, but the comb had three broken tines. And there, wedged against the mechanism, was a small leather-bound book.

Ellis frowned, extracting the notebook. The cover bore no title, just a patina of age. When opened, the pages revealed Nora's handwriting, the first entry dated April 17, 1951.

They tell me to speak about it, as if words could possibly contain what happened. As if language was adequate. Three weeks now without voice. Dr. Hemsley calls it "hysterical mutism," but there is nothing hysterical about my silence. It is only rational response to irrational world. The camps, the bodies, the smoke—how does one speak of such things without making them smaller than they were?

Ellis's hands trembled. Grandmother Nora had periods when she wouldn't—or couldn't—speak. Ellis had been nine when she died, too young to recognize the pattern, but old enough to remember the extended silences, attributed by adults to Nora being "old country" and "private."

Here was evidence of something else entirely. The writing sounded just like Ellis remembered Nora speaking—formal English wrapped in that thick Polish accent, occasional articles dropped, tenses sometimes wrong but meaning always clear.

---

At work, Ellis arrived an hour early. The conservation lab was empty, lights off except for the emergency exit signs. Ellis didn't turn on the overheads, preferring to work in the pool of a single desk lamp.

The tablet screen illuminated with a new message from Dr. Michaels: Ellis, hope you're doing better this week. Remember our agreement about tracking your mood patterns. See you Thursday, 2pm.

Ellis hesitated, then typed: Found my grandmother's journal—she had episodes of mutism too. Bringing to session.

Three dots appeared, then: Very significant discovery. We'll discuss the possible inherited components. Remember your medication, please.

Through the morning, Ellis alternated between preparing materials for the bowl's repair and reading Nora's journal. The entries spanned decades, some pages covered in dense paragraphs, others containing only a single line or a pressed flower.

June 3, 1954: The silence is back, thick as fog. Joseph tries to understand, but how can he? His family been in America for generations. Mine fled with nothing but what we could carry. The things I saw—no, I cannot. Will not. Nie mogę tego zrobić. The children need me present, not dwelling in past. Let it stay buried, even if means my voice stays buried with it.

Ellis couldn't translate the Polish phrase, but the context was clear enough. Nora had escaped Poland in 1939, leaving most of her family behind. What remained unspoken was how that trauma had cascaded through generations—Nora's selective mutism, then Ellis's father David, and now Ellis.

"Knock knock." Diane appeared in the doorway, coffee in hand. "Just fixed the espresso machine—thought you might want the fruits of my engineering triumph." She set the cup near Ellis, careful not to disturb their workspace. "Whatcha got there? Looks old."

Ellis hesitated, then turned the journal so she could see.

"Your grandmother's?" Diane asked, eyebrows raised.

Ellis nodded.

"Cool. My grandmother left me her collection of souvenir spoons and a recipe for pierogies that'll clog your arteries just reading it." She smiled, her gaze lingering on Ellis's face. "You okay? You look like you haven't slept."

Ellis reached for their tablet: Family history. Complicated.

"Isn't it always?" Diane squeezed Ellis's shoulder briefly. "Committee meeting at eleven, by the way. You can skip it if you're deep in repairs, but Mortensen's been asking about the exhibition timeline."

Ellis's heart sank. Another hour of sitting silently while colleagues debated shipment schedules and lighting designs, everyone carefully pretending not to notice when Ellis typed contributions into the shared document instead of speaking aloud.

Will try to make it, Ellis typed, not meeting Diane's eyes.

"Hey." Diane's voice softened. "I'll sit next to you. If you need to leave, just tap my arm twice. I'll make some excuse."

Ellis looked up, surprised.

Thank you.

"What are work spouses for?" Diane grinned. "Besides, you covered for me during that disaster with the Ming vase and the air conditioning leak. I owe you for life."

After she left, Ellis returned to the journal, turning to entries from the early 1980s.

March 18, 1983: David isn't speaking again. Third episode this year. Sarah called, frantic. He sits staring at wall while little Ellie tries to coax him with picture books. She is such bright child, but already I see worry in her eyes when she looks at her father. I recognize that distant look of his—it's like seeing my own reflection decades ago. What have I passed down in my blood? More than my dark eyes and quick hands, it seems. Something broken in our minds.

Ellis closed the journal, chest tight. They remembered those periods from childhood: father seated in his armchair, physically present but somehow unreachable, mother's increasing frustration. Then at nine years old, Ellis had walked into the garage at the wrong moment. Found him. And afterward, words had simply... evaporated.

The psychiatrists had called it trauma-induced selective mutism, compounded by genetic predisposition toward depression. Thirty years of silence followed.

---

"What I'm seeing in your grandmother's journal," Dr. Michaels said, adjusting his reading glasses, "reminds me of what we might call a lacuna in emotional expression."

Ellis frowned, typing quickly on their tablet: Lacuna?

"It's Latin," Dr. Michaels explained, absentmindedly twisting the Native American silver ring he always wore. "Originally meant a pit or hollow, but now we use it to describe meaningful gaps or missing information. Does that resonate with what you've found in Nora's writing?"

Ellis nodded slowly, fingers hovering over the tablet before typing: Appropriate word.

"What strikes you most about her journal?" Dr. Michaels asked, returning the book to Ellis.

Ellis hadn't expected the question. After a moment: She understood silence differently than most people. Not as absence but as... containment?

Dr. Michaels nodded. "That's insightful. And how do you experience your own silence?"

Ellis stared at the music box parts arranged precisely on the table. The cursor blinked on the tablet screen for nearly a minute before they typed: Like holding your breath underwater. Necessary for survival, but not sustainable forever.

"That's the first time you've described it that way." Dr. Michaels leaned forward. "Your grandmother found a way to breathe through writing. Would you consider trying something similar?"

Ellis considered, then reached for the tablet: I already write. Work reports. Shopping lists. Text messages.

"That's functional writing. I'm suggesting something different—writing as voice."

Ellis stared at the tablet screen, cursor blinking. What would be the point? Writing doesn't change anything.

"Didn't it help your grandmother navigate her silent periods? And your father never found an alternative means of expression during his depressive episodes. Perhaps that's a crucial difference."

Ellis attempted to swallow past the tightness in their throat, made a small sound that wasn't quite a word but more than a breath. Dr. Michaels pretended not to notice—one of the reasons Ellis had stayed with him for eight years. No pressure, no expectation.

Ellis assembled the last pieces of the music box mechanism. When it was complete, they wound the key slowly.

The melody emerged, hesitant at first, then gaining strength—a Polish lullaby, simple and haunting. In Ellis's mind, an image formed: grandmother Nora at the window, humming along, fingers tapping the rhythm on the sill. Then further back, to Nora's mother doing the same in a different country, different century.

Ellis hadn't cried in years, not since the immediate aftermath of finding father. But now tears came silently, tracking down their face as the music played its brief song and wound down.

Ellis reached for the tablet: I'll try writing. Not promises. But try.

Dr. Michaels nodded. "That's enough for today."

---

That evening, the music box repaired and playing softly beside them, Ellis sat at their kitchen table with the tablet open to a webpage on Latin etymologies. The screen glowed with phrases and their origins:

Lacuna (n.) - a gap, missing part

Tacet (v.) - he/she/it is silent

Vox (n.) - voice

Memoria (n.) - memory

Ellis scrolled through the list, fascinated by how a supposedly dead language continued to express precisely what modern English sometimes couldn't. There was something comforting about these ancient words that had survived centuries, crossing borders and generations—sounds that people still shaped with their mouths despite the language's official "death."

Ellis opened their notebook and wrote at the top of a fresh page: Tacet - followed by the day's date. Below it: I am silent, but not empty. Like the spaces between musical notes, my lacunae have shape and meaning.

---

Diane cornered Ellis in the staff room the next day, her usual energy subdued. "Can we talk? Privately?"

Ellis followed her to the empty conference room, anxiety mounting.

"So, you don't have to answer this, but—is your silence a choice? Or...?" Diane fidgeted with her beaded bracelet. "Sorry, that's probably inappropriate. It's just—we've worked together four years and I realized I've never actually asked."

Ellis hadn't expected this. Most people either assumed they knew the reason for Ellis's silence or were too uncomfortable to acknowledge it directly. Ellis pulled out their tablet.

Both, now. Started as trauma. Became habit. Complicated.

"Thanks for telling me." Diane smiled, relieved. "I found this exhibit proposal about disability and art—thought you might be interested in consulting. Only if you want. No pressure."

Ellis stared at the folder she offered, then typed: People will expect me to speak about it.

"Not necessarily. You could write the curatorial notes, maybe record them as audio with a text-to-speech program. Or not. Just thought you might have perspectives worth sharing."

I'll think about it.

The idea lingered as Ellis worked through Nora's journal that week. In entries from the 1990s, after David's suicide and Ellis's subsequent mutism, Nora documented her own struggles to understand.

December 12, 1993: Ellie hasn't spoken in four years now. The specialists say it may be permanent—the mind's way of protecting itself. I recognize place she is in. That locked room of self. But I found my way out eventually. Will she? Sarah is at her breaking point, blaming Joseph and me somehow, as if depression was curse we deliberately passed down. Może ma rację—perhaps she is right to be angry.

Ellis paused, struck by the parallels. Like grandmother, like granddaughter. One entry from just before Ellis's thirteenth birthday caught their attention:

March 30, 1994: Took Ellie to conservation workshop at museum today. First time I see real interest in her eyes since David died. The conservator let her help clean old silver frame. Such careful hands, my granddaughter has. Maybe this is her way to speak—through fixing broken things.

Ellis hadn't remembered that day until now. But yes—there had been a visit to a museum workshop, a kind-faced woman who let Ellis hold a paintbrush dipped in cleaning solution. The memory surfaced like a bubble from deep water.

Ellis reached the final pages of the journal, dated just weeks before Nora's death.

February 3, 1996: I dream of my mother's voice sometimes, singing old lullabies. This music box was hers—only thing she saved when we fled. When I wind it, I imagine her humming along, and for moment, she is with me again. I will leave it to Ellie. Perhaps she will find comfort in its melody, this thread connecting us across time. Across our shared silences.

---

The donor lunch was exactly as Ellis had dreaded—too bright, too loud, too many people asking well-intentioned questions. But Diane had kept her promise, running interference when conversations stalled awkwardly, translating Ellis's typed responses to the group without making a spectacle of it.

When the museum director asked about the kintsugi exhibition, Ellis fingered the corner of the folder they'd brought—Diane's proposal for an accompanying exhibit on art, trauma, and healing. Ellis thought of Nora's journal entry about the museum workshop, that first spark of interest in conservation. Was this another connection spanning generations? Fixing broken things as a way to speak?

Ellis slid the folder across the table.

"Ellis would be consulting on the curatorial text," Diane explained.

The director raised his eyebrows. "You'd write the material yourself, Ellis?"

Ellis nodded, and typed on their tablet: I may have relevant perspective.

"Well, that's... unexpected. But excellent." He smiled, genuinely pleased. "Our audiences connect with personal narratives. This could add a powerful dimension."

Ellis felt something shift internally—not words forming, exactly, but a loosening. A small space opening where before there had been only constriction.

---

That night in the apartment, Ellis sat at the kitchen table, the restored music box open, the blank notebook beside it. Outside, rain tapped against the windows—nature's Morse code, insistent and undecipherable.

Ellis wound the music box, letting the melody fill the small space. Then, with deliberate care, wrote on the first page:

My name is Ellis Novak. I have not spoken in thirty years. This is not because I have nothing to say, but because some wounds create silences that feel impossible to break. Today I found my grandmother's journal hidden in this music box. She couldn't speak sometimes, either. Neither could my father. We carry this silence in our blood, alongside our dark eyes and quick hands.

I work with broken things. I make them whole again, or as close to whole as possible. The Japanese art of kintsugi embraces damage as part of an object's history—the gold-filled cracks becoming the most beautiful part.

Ellis paused, considering the next words carefully. The apartment was silent except for the distant sounds of the city—car horns, voices carrying from the street, a siren wailing somewhere far off. A world full of noise that Ellis had navigated in silence for so long.

I don't know if I will ever speak again. But I am still here, still listening, still bearing witness. And now, in these pages at least, still speaking.

Ellis closed the notebook and wound the music box one more time, listening as the lullaby played—the same notes Nora had heard, that Nora's mother had heard before her. A thread of sound connecting generations, surviving war and ocean crossings, depressions and silences.

Ellis touched the kintsugi bowl brought home from the museum, its golden seams catching the lamplight. Writing, like kintsugi, wasn't about erasing damage but transforming it—finding beauty in the spaces where the cracks had formed. Tomorrow, they would begin work on the exhibition text, finding words for experiences that had seemed beyond language. Ellis opened the notebook again and continued writing into the night, the music box's melody threading through the silence.