"And none of that matters anymore." Her voice is flat. Resigned. "I was nineteen when I met Cain. By twenty, I'd forgotten what it felt like to dream. He made sure of that."
The anger rises in me again—not the hot, blinding rage from earlier, but something colder.
More permanent. A hatred for a dead man that will never fully fade.
"What did you want to be?" I ask. "Before him."
"A teacher." The word comes out wistful. Almost painful. "English and Creative Writing. I wanted to teach high school, help kids discover the same love for stories that I had. I had this whole vision—my own classroom, shelves full of books, students who'd roll their eyes at Shakespeare but secretly love it." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Stupid, right?"
"Why is it stupid?"
"Because it's never going to happen. I'm twenty-two years old, I have a degree I've never used, and I've spent the last three years learning how to survive instead of how to live. I don't even know if I remember how to teach. How to do anything useful."
"That's bullshit."
She blinks, turning to look at me. "What?"
"You heard me." I hold her gaze, unflinching. "You think you're broken beyond repair? You think those three years erased everything you were before? They didn't. You're still the same woman who wanted to inspire kids, who loved books, who dreamed about Paris and London. You've just been buried under all the shit Cain piled on top of you."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." The words come out rougher than I intended. "I've seen you with Tawny and Paige, drawing them out, making them laugh. I've seen you with that battered copy ofPride and Prejudice, reading it like the words are oxygen. I've seen the way your face lights up when you talk about stories, about teaching, about the things you used to want."
"That's not?—"
"It is." I reach out, turning her face toward me. "You're not nothing, Ripley. You never were. And those dreams aren't dead. They're just waiting for you to remember them."
Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "What if I can't? What if he broke something in me that can't be fixed?"
"Then you build something new." My thumb brushes her cheek, catching a tear that escapes despite her best efforts. "Do you still want it? The teaching, the classroom, the books?"
She's quiet for a long moment. "I don't know."
"Then figure it out." I let my hand fall away, turning to look out at the city. "You're not his anymore. You're not anyone's. You get to decide who you are now, what you want, what kind of life you're going to build. But you have to actually do it. No one's going to hand it to you."
"Is that what you did? After the military?"
The question catches me off guard. I don't talk about those years—the darkness, the drowning, the slow climb backto something resembling human. But she's looking at me with those brown eyes, open and vulnerable, and I find myself answering.
"Yeah. Salvo gave me a chance, but I had to take it. Had to decide I wanted to live instead of just survive." I pause. "It's not easy. Some days it still feels impossible. But it's worth it."
"How do you know when you're ready?"
"You don't. You just... start. One step at a time. And eventually, you look back and realize you've come further than you thought possible."
She's quiet, processing. I let the silence stretch, watching the city lights shimmer against the dark water of the rivers.
"I'm scared," she finally admits.
"I know."
"What if I fail?"
"Then you try again." I look at her. "But you won't fail, Ripley. You're stronger than you think. I've seen it."
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression—the fear giving way to something else. Something that looks almost like determination.
"Okay," she says softly. "I'll try."
