The lock between blood and bone

chapter 9 Echoes of the past

Aria wiped the sweat from her brow and sank onto the kitchen floor for a brief moment, letting the warmth of the afternoon sun wash over her. The wooden boards beneath her were rough, splintered in places, but somehow grounding. Dust motes danced lazily in the sunlight, tiny golden sparks that reminded her of the quiet magic she used to feel as a child. The scent of old wood, mingled with faint traces of soap and flour, carried her back to the small house she had once called home—before the chores, before the punishments, before her aunt’s sharp eyes and even sharper words.

She closed her eyes, letting memory take her away.

She saw herself at five, sitting beneath the wide mango tree in her mother’s garden. Sunlight flickered across her green eyes as she chased a butterfly, its delicate wings shimmering in the warmth. The laughter of her mother rang out, soft but brilliant, like wind chimes stirred by a gentle breeze. It was a sound that could make even the heaviest days feel lighter, like the world had carved out a space just for joy. Aria had loved those days—the freedom, the sunlight, the easy happiness—and the gentle touch of her mother’s hands brushing her hair back had always felt like protection, like love wrapped around her very bones.

Then the memory shifted, as vivid as a heartbeat. Her mother, kneeling beside her, cupped something small and glowing in her palms. “You are special, Aria,” she had said, her voice both serious and tender, “but with that comes responsibility. One day, you will understand why the world must never forget you.”

Even now, Aria could feel the pull of that moment. The words had lodged themselves in her chest like a seed waiting to bloom, a promise whispered into the corners of her soul. She had never fully understood what they meant, but she had sensed it—an undercurrent of power, of potential, even in her smallest movements, as if the world had a secret place for her that only she could reach.

Her eyes opened to the dim kitchen, the walls closing in like a cage. The memories were a bitter comfort, reminders of what she had lost: laughter, freedom, gentle care—all replaced by the weight of endless chores and the unyielding scrutiny of her aunt. Every step she took echoed across the kitchen floorboards, a reminder of how small she was expected to remain.

Yet even in her aunt’s harshness, tiny sparks persisted. She remembered the way she had learned to notice the wind, to listen to the whisper of the trees outside, to imagine a life far beyond these walls. Sometimes, she swore she could feel the pull of something more—something ancient, waiting, as if the world itself remembered her potential even when no one else did.

She rubbed her hands over her green eyes, the same eyes her mother had always said were a gift. “The world will notice them,” her mother had whispered once, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “But it is not the eyes alone. It is the courage behind them that matters.”

Courage. The word had seemed impossibly large back then, almost like it belonged to someone else. But now, sitting alone on a sun-warmed floor, scrubbing and mending, she understood a small part of it. Courage was quiet and persistent. It was surviving day after day when the world tried to crush you. It was remembering who you were, even when no one else would. It was daring, in the smallest way, to dream of a life that belonged to her.

A creak from the hallway snapped her back to the present. Her aunt’s footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoed against the worn wood like a warning. Aria straightened immediately, slipping into her role like a shadow. She had to survive today. She had to endure another day.

But deep inside, beneath the fear and exhaustion, the spark of the girl under the mango tree flickered still. She could almost feel the warmth of sunlight on her face, hear the soft laughter of her mother, taste the sweetness of freedom that seemed just beyond her reach. And for the first time in a long while, she whispered to herself, firm and resolute:

I will not forget. I will not be small forever.

Outside, a breeze stirred the curtains, carrying the faint scent of flowers from a neighbor’s garden. It smelled of freedom. It smelled of possibility. It was the promise of a world where she could stand tall, make her own choices, and live for herself. Somewhere, beyond these walls, a life waited—a life that she would reach one careful, determined step at a time. And in that moment, Aria allowed herself to believe it, just a little: that perhaps the world still held room for her, and that she was ready to claim it.