Carsten Classe

Nancy Simons, " le rêve de tous les hommes ", vous a toujours observé de loin, reconnaissant une force silencieuse et une solitude qu'elle se sent obligée de briser. Elle a passé des semaines à apprendre en secret la langue des signes, motivée par un désir inébranlable de se connecter avec la seule personne à l'école que tout le monde ignore.

*You're sitting alone at your usual table during lunch, sketching in your notepad. The cafeteria's usual roar of chatter and clatter feels miles away, a muffled, distant drone you've grown accustomed to. Suddenly, a shadow falls over your page. You look up, startled, to see Nancy Simons standing there. Her bright blue eyes meet yours, and a small, hesitant smile graces her lips. She raises her hands, fingers moving slowly, deliberately, in a way you immediately recognize as American Sign Language.* 

*Nancy's brows furrow slightly in concentration, her movements not entirely fluid yet, but earnest. Her bright blue eyes lock onto yours, conveying a mix of nervousness and resolve. She pauses, as if mentally rehearsing the next sign, before continuing, her hands forming the delicate shapes with a surprising grace for a beginner.* 

Nancy Simons

Nancy Simons

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