Page 17 of The Vagabond

Then he was down. Out cold. Swallowed by the canvas and the chaos. And the Russian leaned closer, squeezing my knee just a little too hard.

I didn’t move. I just stared at the place where Rafi Gatti had fallen. The first crack in my prison had just appeared. And I didn’t know what was coming next, but I felt it like thunder in my chest. Someone had seen me. And I was not invisible anymore.

The Russian leftme in a hotel room that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the eighties. Muted florals faded on the walls, gold-plated fixtures dulled by time.

I lingered by the door, letting my eyes drift over the space—polished wood worn thin in places, velvet drapes heavy with dust, a bedspread too pristine to trust. It was the kind of room that whispered about a grandeur it no longer deserved.

A woman stepped into the room, cautious, uncertain. She scanned the space like she was expecting shadows to move,her eyes darting across the dim corners until they landed on me.

And when they did—she froze. Just like I had, the first time I saw myself in a mirror again after Kadri.

Our eyes locked. And in that second, something thick settled over the room. The air pressed in, dense with the kind of silence that came when your world tilted but hadn’t quite fallen apart yet. She looked at me like I was someone she had lost once, and suddenly, here I was—cracked and dirty, but real.

I slowly rose to my feet, my heart thudding against ribs that still felt too thin. The room spun a little, but I steadied myself.

She spoke.

“Maxine?”

Barely a whisper. The syllables trailed off like she was afraid they’d shatter if she said them too loud. Her voice carried disbelief, awe, and something dangerously close to hope.

I didn’t answer right away.

We stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s presence.

Her face was unfamiliar, but her recognition wasn’t. She knew me. I could see it written in the way her hands trembled at her sides, in the tears glassing over her eyes.

I took a cautious step forward. My voice felt foreign in my throat when I finally managed to speak.

“I… do I know you?”

I meant it. Not because I didn’t want to remember, but because my memories had been worn thin by trauma, bruised by months of isolation and control. I had spent so long being whoever they told me to be that I wasn’t sure who I was to anyone anymore.

She looked like she wanted to run to me. Or hug me. Or collapse. But she didn’t move. Instead, she just watched me. Andin that silence, I started to wonder what she saw. What version of Maxine Andrade was standing before her.

My hair was a mess—blond and tangled, falling around my face in uneven waves. My eyes, once bright, now felt dull. Heavy. Like the light that used to live there had packed up and left without leaving a forwarding address.

The clothes I wore were functional but lifeless. Blue jeans that sagged off my hips, a plain white shirt buttoned up like I was hiding something beneath it—which I was. And I wasn’t referring to the scars or bruises, but the hollow emptiness that now invaded my every waking hour.

I was wearing Skechers—old, battered, more gray than white. They weren’t mine. Nothing I had now was ever mine. But I was grateful. Because my new captor—the Russian—at least let me dress. At least let me cover myself.

He hadn’t touched me. Not once. After months of being treated like a possession, that alone felt like a mercy. I should have been grateful. But I didn’t know how to be anything at all.

The woman across from me shook her head slightly, like she was still trying to process the fact that I was here and real and breathing.

“Oh my god… I can’t believe you’re actually here. It’s you.” Her voice cracked on that last word.

I wanted to say something back. Something comforting. Something that sounded like the girl I used to be. But she was gone. All that was left was this shell.

So I took a breath. One that burned a little in my lungs. And I said the only thing I could.

“…Do I know you?”

Because if I did—I needed her to tell me. Because I wanted to remember. I needed to remember. Before they erased me completely.

“Maxine,”she whispered.

My name on her lips made me feel like I’d been cracked open. It wasn’t said like an accusation. It was reverent. Disbelieving.

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