Chapter Ten
334 Words
It was the night of the cold moon.
The kind of night when windows rattle even with no wind…
When sleep comes late, and dreams come early.
And in the father’s tent, something shifted.
He was not asleep.
But he was no longer fully awake either.
He sat, spine curled, hands folded like broken wings—
and then he felt it:
Warmth.
Not fire.
Not fabric.
Something older.
A presence.
Then, a voice.
⸻
Not a scream.
Not a whisper.
Just her voice.
Calm. Clear. Unafraid.
“You never asked why I stayed quiet.”
His heart clenched.
He turned. No one.
Only shadows, and the faint scent of orange blossom—her favorite.
“You thought silence meant guilt.
But sometimes… silence is the last thing we own.”
His breath hitched.
He wanted to answer. To fall. To beg.
But she kept going.
“They called me a liar.
You called me a curse.
But I was just a girl… with truth too heavy for my age.”
He closed his eyes.
Tears fell—silent, steady. The kind that carve paths through skin.
“You weren’t a monster, Baba…
You were just afraid.
And fear,” she paused, “can be louder than love.”
⸻
He spoke then.
For the first time, not to her grave.
Not to the wind.
But to her.
“I didn’t know how to protect you… I thought punishing you would protect the rest.
I thought… if I silenced you, I could silence the shame.”
“But it wasn’t yours to carry,” her voice softened.
“It was theirs.”
⸻
When he opened his eyes, the tent was empty again.
No voice.
No scent.
Only his breath—shaky, but alive.
He stepped outside.
The moon was full. The village asleep.
And for the first time in many months…
he didn’t feel alone.
Because now, her voice lived inside him—
Not as a ghost.
Not as regret.
But as a compass.
- Writer
