“Proud of ya,” he said, then headed to the shower.
“Rose, so good to see you,” says Raphael, a twenty-four-year-old with glasses and soft brown hair, his university backpack slung on one shoulder, the long pale scar along his throat still visible. He was trapped underground for sixteen years of his life, raised to believe the end of the world was coming. I’ve learned a lot from him with his ability to keep a steady mood even after losing years of his childhood beneath the earth. I smile and wave, then find Susan, the organizer, welcoming me with her kind hazelnut eyes.
“Donuts? Cookies?” She's wearing a bright pink sweater under her long black hair, adding colour to the moody grey walls surrounding us. I nod and step closer, taking a chocolate cookie from the white paper box. The meeting room is arranged in a circle of chairs around a single wooden music stand. I hover in front of her, nerves buzzing.
“Anything I can help you with, love?” I nod again, hand shaking as I pull the folded sheet from my jacket and give it to her. “Oh. Thank you, Rose. Do you…want me to read it?” Another nod. I rest my hand on her forearm and squeeze once, hoping she understands how grateful I am. “I’ll try my best, honey. Congratulations on sharing your story. I know…I know how much it takes from someone to share. Really. Thank you.” There are about twenty of us today, all ages, coming from all over the country. If we were walking in the street, no one would be able to tell what links us. That some of us met evil too soon. While others were born blindfolded before even having a chance to see. Evil didn't spare any of us. It hunted our vulnerability and weaponized it against ourselves. But the fact that we are all here, breathing and rebuilding, is proof that no matter our story, thereis always another path forward. As Susan always says, as long as we’re breathing, the restart button is forever there.
“Let’s begin. Greetings, everyone,” Susan says with a clap of her hand. “Come in quick, quick,” she adds with a witty smile to a woman slipping through the door to grab a chair. “It’s so good to see all of you. I hope you’re all well. First, a special thank you to Denis for the donuts and Anna for the delicious cookies. You’ll have to send me the recipe; they were divine.” A few laughs and “thank yous” bounce around the room. “Anyone want to volunteer to start?” Two hands rise, two women I’ve already heard speak before. One who escaped a spiritual cult a year ago and the other who was abducted into one as a child. Hesitantly, I raise mine too. “Rose,” Susan smiles softly, “you go first. Then Lottie, then Brenda.” A few faces turn toward me, the girl who cannot speak, curiosity and gentleness in their eyes. I stand, nerves twisting in my stomach, wishing Vox was here, but I remember insisting he stay at work today. I can handle it on my own. One step at a time, my white sneakers squeak against the floor. I’m grateful for my simple blue jeans and cream blouse giving me more confidence than the brown dress I used to wear. I stand next to Susan and inhale deeply. She opens my letter and looks at me for permission. I give her a shy smile, raise my hand to chest height, and nod.
The moment she speaks, I sign beside her. It may not be my voice, but these are my words and my story, told at my pace. Everyone watches my hands as they move, pulled into the shape of sentences, the rhythm of silence that has been my language for years now. My breath quickens and I fumble one sign, but I let out a soundless laugh. No one cares. What matters is that I’m here, trying.
“Hi everyone, my name is Rose, and as many of you know, I cannot speak. I wrote my story, and Susan will be my voice as I sign it. I was born into a cult called the Faithful Lambsand I escaped a year ago. My parents enrolled when they were in their twenties, and until a few months ago, I believed the outside world was a place of evil, with flames and sins at every corner. Like many of you, I was taught to fear the unknown and be terrified of committing sins. Our beliefs revolved around the journey to the Ascension, and our Leader, the Shepherd, had been chosen by a force greater than us to lead us there. I believed every rule and every custom until a fire burned down our house, the fumes damaging my vocal cords. After that, it all shifted. I started observing our traditions with different eyes, doubting more and more. Everything changed when a man I didn’t know moved into the house next to ours and…” The story goes on, and for twenty minutes I sign through the truth of my past with clarity and determination. People watch me with a quiet respect, absorbing what I share, knowing all too well what it is to grow up fenced off from the world. When I finish, I'm flushed, my heart taking a spin on a treadmill, waiting for their reaction.
Silence stretches.
Then someone claps. Then another. Suddenly, the room fills with applause that swells until it echoes off the walls. I look instinctively toward the doorway, even though I know Vox isn’t there, and the sound almost feels like his arms wrapping around me. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I smile, covering my cheeks with both palms.
I did it.
Chapter 7
Vox
“Close your eyes,”I tell her, guiding her into the living room, my palm over her eyes, my other hand steady on her lower back. She exhales twice in a row, those short little sounds she makes when she’s trying not to laugh. Reading my Rose is like learning a maze. You never really finish, you just keep discovering new turns.
“There. You can open, sweetheart.” I drop my hand and stand behind her, letting her take in the romantic dinner I threw together. I was too damn proud of her for sharing her story today. It deserved a celebration. I can only cook a handful of things, and even then, my skills are questionable. I went to the grocery store at the corner of our street and found pink candles and paper napkins with bows. You should’ve seen the cashier’s face. Priceless. I turned our breakfast nook into a makeshift romantic dining setup. Harley was running between my legs, surely trying to catch a candle to play with. I went all out on the stuff she loves. Napkins, plates, the whole thing. Even picked some flowers from the garden, the big white ones she loves.They last barely a day, but she still fills vases with them like clockwork. I dimmed the lights and put on Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.” That was my parents’ song. Now it's ours. She spins around, hands landing on my chest, gripping the fabric of my black long-sleeve polo.
“You didn’t,” she mouths, and I grin like a damn idiot because her smile will always be my greatest reward.
“It’s not much, angel. I’m sorry I ain’t better at this, but you did something important today. Gotta celebrate. Even if it’s with my average cheese sandwiches.”
“You know I love your cheese sandwiches,” she signs.
I kiss her forehead. “Go sit. I’ll heat them up.” She follows my command, slipping onto the bench in her “home dresses” as she calls them, a long, thin navy wool thing she swears is comfortable, and I swear should be illegal. Her hair is wild and loose around her shoulders, golden waves I’m lucky enough to run my hands through every day. “Here,” I say, serving her a full plate of sandwiches. She catches my hand, tugging it toward her and kissing the back of it right on my rose tattoo. I got it months ago, so I’d carry her everywhere.
“Thank you,” she says silently, and I lift her chin with one finger.
“Don’t say thank you till you try them.” She grins, shaking her head.
“They’re my favorite. And this, the music, the…” She stops, eyes going wide as she signs, “Are you telling me you went to the tiny shop at the corner and bought these for me?” I nod. She smiles, eyes glistening, torn between gratitude and laughing at the image of me buying bow-covered pink napkins. Anything for my girl. All the pink, all the bows. Whatever she wants, I’ll provide. I fill my own plate and slide next to her, grateful I built this bench because it lets me sit as close to her as I want. Shebites into the sandwich, closes her eyes, and gives a silent hum I can practically hear.
“Do you know when Erin and Shadow arrive tomorrow?” she signs.
“In the afternoon. Around four. We’ll give you guys space and be out for the evening.”
“I know you didn’t want to, but it’s tradition,” she signs. “I read it in a book. Bride and groom shouldn’t be together the night before.”
“Sorry, sweetheart, but…nah, I’m not sleeping without you. Not even for one night.”
“Vox…” She pouts with her pillow lips.
“You won’t see me until midnight. Is that…acceptable?”
“Um…okay.”
“You’re tough to bargain with, little angel.” I caress her cheek with the back of my hand.
“I learned from the best,” she signs, a devilish smile tugging at her lips. “What are you planning?”
