After the show ended, people began approaching Cyrilla, each presenting her with a stem of a white rose until they formed a massive bouquet. She started to smile, and for the first time since I had taken her home from the river, she spoke her first word to thank the crowd.
Once the garden quieted, we began to make our way back inside. I moved to lift her into my arms, but she shook her head.
“I want to walk,” she said, her voice raspy from days of silence.
I nodded. Maybe it would help—for her to feel the earth beneath her feet, to take even the smallest step toward reclaiming herself. She was barefoot, but I didn’t stop her. This small act of independence might be exactly what she needed.
When we reached the hallway between her room and mine, she hesitated. Her hand reached for the do
