The sun filtered through the kitchen window, casting warm light over the countertops. Nadyia stood in front of the sink, sleeves rolled up, not scrubbing dishes just standing there, palms flat on the edge, breathing. A week ago, she couldn’t do this. A week ago, being in her own kitchen felt like being in a glass box—like at any second, the illusion of safety would shatter.
Now?
Now, she was making choices again. She chose to stay home that morning instead of hiding out at the Bennetts'. She chose to cook breakfast, to water the plant by the window, to reclaim her space not just physically, but emotionally. She’d called Officer Reynolds the night before, not because something had happened, but because she wanted an update. She wanted information. Power. She wanted her name on every repor
