Chapter 37
Kieran
The girl didn’t look up when I entered.
She was cross-legged on the floor, back pressed to the far wall of the safehouse bedroom, a blanket wrapped around her like armor. The room smelled faintly of lavender—someone had set a diffuser in the corner, maybe trying to soften the sterile walls, the too-quiet hum of safety.
I didn’t speak. Just dropped the bag beside her.
She glanced at it, slow, cautious.
Crayons. A fresh sketchpad. Some markers, scented ones, because… why the hell not.
She didn’t touch them right away. Just stared. Like she wasn’t sure they were real, or if reaching for them would cost her something.
I didn’t rush her.
Instead, I sat down. Not close—just far enough that she could bolt if she wanted to. Close enough that she wouldn’t feel alone if she didn’t.
Silence stretched. I liked silence. Always had .
She opened the bag ten minutes later. Peeled the plastic off the crayon box like it might explode. Then pulled one out—a red. Drew a single, jagged line across the page. Nothing more.
Progress.
I rested my back against the wall and closed my eyes.
I didn’t think about Facility E. Didn’t think about the names on the list or the blood that would follow. I just breathed.
Another line scratched across the paper.
She was drawing a sun, I realized. Off-center. Crooked. But bright.
“You know,” I said quietly, “when I was your age, I thought silence was the safest sound in the world.”
Her hand paused, mid-stroke.
“Noise meant anger,” I continued. “Raised voices. Slammed doors. Belt buckles coming undone.” A beat. “Silence meant I had time. To hide. To disappear.”
She didn’t speak. Just kept coloring.
“I got good at vanishing,” I said. “So good I forgot how to come back.”
Still nothing. But she glanced at me now. Just for a second.
“There was a woman once, who ran a group home. Didn’t talk much either. Just left a sketchbook outside my door. New one every time I filled the last.”
I looked down at the pages in front of her.
“She said, ‘If you can’t talk about it, draw it.’ That was enough.”
She reached for a yellow crayon. Started filling in the sun.
And I let her.
The door clicked softly behind me when I stepped out. The hallway was quiet, lined with shadow. But Seraphina was there, leaning against the wall across from the room like she’d been waiting.
Or maybe just listening.
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just watched me.
Then, gently, “You’re good with her.”
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“You are,” she insisted. “You didn’t talk to her like she was broken.”
“She’s not,” I said simply. “She’s rebuilding.”
Her eyes softened. Something in her posture loosened. She stepped closer—not invading, just enough to share the quiet.
“Do you ever draw anymore?” she asked.
I huffed a small breath. “Not in years.”
“You should.”
I met her gaze, surprised by how steady it was.
“You think it fixes anything?” I asked.
“No,” she said, honest. “But maybe it reminds you of what’s still worth fixing.”
We stood there a while longer. Not talking. Just sharing air.
Then, as I turned to leave, she touched my arm. Brief, light. Grounding.
“You’re more than a soldier, Kieran.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
Because maybe I’d forgotten that.
Or maybe… I’d never believed it to begin with.