I would never be that Karlyn again. That girl died two years ago, and all that was left was someone who resembled the person I used to be.
There was always a line between before and after, even if nobody else could see it. I stood at the threshold of my room, sunlight catching on the faded photographs taped to the wall and tried to remind myself what it was to belong. The laughter echoing down the hallway—Daphne’s easy joy, the girls’ playful chatter—felt almost foreign, and yet, part of me yearned to reach out and claim a slice of that ordinary happiness. Maybe if I letmyself accept their kindness, the past would loosen its grip just enough to breathe.
Sunlight filtered through the faded curtains, painting the worn floorboards in streaks of gold. I watched the dust dance in those beams, suspended between darkness and light, just like me. I wondered if I’d ever feel whole in the warmth of other people again—or if I was doomed to exist forever on the fringe, haunted by memories that refused to let go. Still, as Daphne lingered at the doorway, her eyes soft with patient kindness, a part of me longed to say yes. Maybe pretending for a little while would help me believe it was possible to start over.
“Momma!”
I flinched when I sawher.
She looked like me. Likehim, and just like that, any chance of pretending faltered as I was starkly reminded of the hell that existed on this Earth. I couldn’t stop staring ather, even when Daphne pickedherup and kissedhercheek.
“Wrenly!” my brother shouted, and likeher, he was there, looking at the little girl. “I said wait for me.”
“Sorry, Daddy.”
“Here,” Daphne said, passing the little girl off to my brother. “Take her and meet me downstairs. I want to speak with Karlyn.”
My brother nodded and then kissed his wife and left, takingherwith him. The second he left withher, I relaxed. I knew it was wrong. I knewshewasn’t to blame, but I couldn’t look atherand not see what I’d suffered. I couldn’t stand looking ather.
And God forgive me... I hatedher.
I hated thatsheexisted.
I squeezed my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms, desperate for control over the bitterness that threatened to spill out. Daphne stepped forward, her presence steady and familiar, and for a moment, I wanted to lean into her comfort. But thewords locked inside me felt jagged, impossible to shape into something gentle or true.
Daphne didn’t try to fill the silence. She waited, letting the hush settle between us, her gaze never wavering. Finally, she spoke softly, “You’re not alone, Karlyn. No matter how much it feels like the world narrowed down to your pain, you’re still here. We’re still here.” Her words were gentle, but they pressed against the wall I’d built around my heart, making me ache with a longing I didn’t want to admit. For a brief second, I almost believed her—that maybe, with time, I could find my way back to myself.
Yet I said nothing.
I couldn’t. Because if I did, I knew I would break. I wouldn’t be able to hold back the emotions I fought to keep at bay. She wouldn’t understand. No one would. If I told her what I’d suffered, what he did to me, it would break her, and I couldn’t do that to Daphne. Not to my brother’s wife. Instead, I said nothing as I turned back to the window.
I heard Daphne sigh. “If you ever want to talk. I’m a really good listener.” Still, the silence between us lingered, heavy and unyielding, until I heard my bedroom door close behind her.
I traced the grooves in the window frame with trembling fingers, searching for something to anchor me. If only I could turn my pain into words, maybe I could finally let some of it go. But every time I tried, my voice failed me, the memories too sharp and the fear too close. All I could do was hold on, refusing to let myself unravel, even as the weight threatened to drag me under. Leaning my head against the windowsill, I whispered, “Where are you?”
I didn’t know how long I sat there, but when I saw the moonlight spill across the floorboards, thin and cold through the glass, I knew he wasn’t coming back tonight. Still, I sat there as the quiet stretched on, thick with memories I wished Icould banish. I pressed my forehead to the pane, letting the chill ground me, remind me that I was still here—even if I sometimes wished I wasn’t. Each breath hurt, raw in my chest, but I took another anyway, stubborn against the darkness that wanted to swallow me whole.
Somewhere in the distance, a car passed by; its headlights briefly illuminated the edge of the curtains, a reminder that life outside these walls continued, even if mine was frozen in place.
“Close your eyes and tell me what you hear, baby,” he whispered from behind me, his arms holding me close.
Doing as he asked, I closed my eyes and listened. After a second or two, I whispered, “I hear nothing.”
Chuckling, he leaned closer, his warm lips against my ear and said, “Just listen to the forest, baby. She will tell you everything if you just listen to her.”
Taking another deep breath, I waited, eyes closed, just like he said, when a breeze swept past, rustling leaves and the branches. It almost sounded like a soft whistle, as if the wind was talking to the trees. Then, a twig snapped, and my head turned toward the sound. I barely heard it, but I knew something was moving off to my right. My heart gave a little jump against his chest. “There,” I whispered, my voice a breath. “A twig snapped. Something’s there.”
He tightened his hold, a silent acknowledgment, and I could feel the low rumble of his chuckle against my back. “Good girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing my temple. “The forest keeps its secrets close, but it whispers them to those who are patient.”
I strained my ears, trying to decipher more from the rustling symphony. The wind seemed to weave throughthe branches with a more insistent rhythm now, a hushed conversation I was still struggling to understand. Was it just the wind, or was it a warning? The snap of the twig had been too precise, too deliberate to be mere chance. I pictured the unseen presence, a shadow perhaps, blending into the deepening twilight, watching us.
His hand gently cupped mine, his thumb stroking the back of it in a steady, reassuring rhythm. “Listen to the pulse of the earth, Karlyn,” he encouraged, his voice a low hum against my ear. “Feel it. The forest breathes, and it has a heartbeat of its own.”
I focused, trying to drown out the frantic thumping of my own heart, willing myself to connect with something ancient and wild. And then, it came. Not a sound, not exactly, but a shift in the air, a prickle on my skin that told me the unseen was closer. The forest wasn’t just whispering now; it was holding its breath. I could feel the subtle tremors through his embrace, a shared awareness of the encroaching stillness. My breath hitched, a tiny, involuntary gasp that I tried to stifle against his chest. It felt as if every rustle of leaves, every creak of branch, was being held captive, awaiting a signal.
“It’s waiting,” I whispered, my words barely audible. “It knows we’re here.”
The gentle pressure of his arms around me didn’t loosen, but I felt a subtle tension enter his posture, a readiness I hadn’t sensed before. He hadn’t explicitly told me what to listen for, but my own senses were now screaming a warning. The peaceful symphony of the woods had transformed into a prelude, charged with an unknown anticipation, and the snap of that twig had been the opening chord.
