Her eyes hold a quiet ache I recognize in my bones. She’s not guessing. She’s remembering.
Rafe takes a step, not toward me, but between me and Mama Rue’s scissors. The air shifts—him, moving—and my body notices before my eyes do.
His voice is low. “No cutting. Not unless she asks.”
Something eases inside me at that, a slackening of the vice around my lungs. A small, precious inch of space.
Mercy lifts one hand halfway, waits, then moves it a fraction closer until her fingers hover near my hair. “Let me untangle it. We’ll go slow. You pull away if it hurts.”
I loosen one fistful of hair. Barely. Fear vibrates through every muscle, but the way she looks at me—steady, patient—makes an old place inside me pause.
Mercy reaches out and touches a single strand. Light. Barely there. The gentleness stuns me more than any blow ever did.
She starts working at one knot with her fingertips. Quiet motions that ease one tiny piece at a time. When she meets resistance, she stops. Looks at me. Waits for the tremor in my shoulders to settle before continuing.
Time dissolves into the rhythm of her hands. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it stops clawing. The air grows easier to breathe.
Mama Rue hums a low blessing behind us. I don’t understand the words, but the cadence settles into my spine, smoothing the rough edges.
She settles onto the floor near me, her knees creaking. She doesn’t crowd my space. She doesn’t reach. She folds her hands in her lap, eyes soft but steady.
“Child.” Her voice is warm as coals banked for the night. “What do we call you?”
The hum inside me scrapes against bone. A name is dangerous. Names can be used to summon, to punish, to claim. Names were things taken from the girls who didn’t understand the rules fast enough.
I shake my head hard, chest tightening. I can’t speak it. I can’t trust sound. I can barely trust breath.
Rafe kneels a careful distance away, placing a scrap of paper and a pencil on the floor between us. He doesn’t push, just sets them where I can reach if I choose.
“You can write it,” he says. “Only if you want.”
Mama Rue watches me like she’s reading the places I hide instead of the expression on my face. “A name is a root. A place to grow from. But you decide if the soil is ready.”
Mercy nods once. “No rush. We’ll wait.”
The patience in the room feels heavier than fear. My fingers twitch at my sides. My eyes keep landing on the paper, thenjumping away. I reach for the pencil before I can scare myself out of it.
My hand shakes so hard the tip scrapes against the paper. Mercy’s eyes widen, but she stays still, letting me fight my own war with the trembling. Sweat beads on my palms. The pencil rolls slightly between my fingers. I grip it tighter.
One letter. I press it onto the page. A crooked line, smudged at the edge.
B
My fingers tremble, but I keep going. I don’t look at their faces. I don’t want to know if they’re watching. I don’t want praise or pity. I want proof that I still exist.
I finish the last stroke.
B R I A R
My name. My truth. The only thing they never managed to take.
The letters shake, but they’re mine.
A sound rises in my throat—soft, shaky, unfamiliar. Mercy exhales as her eyes find mine.
Mama Rue repeats the name with reverence. “Briar. Strong enough to survive a storm. Sharp enough to keep yourself alive.”
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
