Page 128 of Jayson
She climbs down the ladder slowly, her limbs loose but graceful, the aftermath of adrenaline still humming through her body. When her bare feet finally touch the ground, she doesn’t wobble. She lands like she’s weightless.
“I’m in awe that you can do that,” I say quietly.
She offers a tired smile. “Everyone usually is. For about five seconds, before the novelty wears off.”
I know she’s probably just being modest, humble. Luna walking a tightrope is the most beautiful, most freeing thing I’ve ever seen.
“How could anyone not be mesmerized by such a performance?”
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. “Come on. You need tea.”
Inside the whisper quiet kitchen devoid of life, she moves like someone who’s made peace with chaos. Smooth, deliberate, calm. The kettle whistles low. She pours two mugs—honey in one, lemon in the other—and hands me the sweeter one without asking.
“Not sleeping?” she asks gently.
I shake my head.
She doesn’t press. Just opens the back door and gestures for me to follow her out onto the porch. We sit on an old wooden swing, tucked under a thick blanket that smells faintly of cinnamon and sawdust. The mug is warm between my hands. The morning wraps around us like a secret.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
The swing creaks beneath us, slow and tired, like even the wood is worn out from pretending everything’s fine. Birds chirp in nearby trees, and for a second, I let myself believe this day might be gentle.
“Mornings are best for my routine,” Lula says eventually. Her voice is calm. Practiced. “It’s a good workout. And a reminder that I’m still alive.”
I stare at the smooth rim of my mug.
“What if sometimes… you wish you weren’t?”
She jerks her head toward me. She stares at me like I’ve just slapped her.
“Wish I wasn’t alive?” she echoes, and there’s no room in her voice for misunderstanding. “No. I’ve wished a thousand things, Keira. That I’d fought harder. That I’d screamed louder. That someone—anyone—would’ve come sooner. She shakes her head. Tension tightens her jaw. “I don’t want to know where I’d be if I wasn’t alive. But I’ve never wished for death, because that’s the coward’s way out.”
I swallow hard. My fingers are clenched too tight around the mug. “My life is complicated.”
“So is surviving,” she says, eyes locked on mine. “But here we are.”
Silence again. Heavier now. Then she exhales through her nose, something gentler pulling at her features.
“You know… you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.”
I look at her curiously.
“The girl I used to be. She didn’t smile much either,” Lula says quietly. “Didn’t trust the world. Didn’t think she was allowed to take up space. She was always waiting for someone to hurt her. Most days, they did.”
My throat burns.
“I didn’t like her very much,” she adds. “But I forgave her. Eventually.”
The sun pushes over the edge of the trees. It touches her face, spills gold down her collarbone like warmth is finally brave enough to reach her.
And all I can think is—I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself. Not for what I’ve done. Not for what I let happen. And not for still being here. But maybe… maybe I can learn to sit still on a swing beside someone who survived too. Maybe I can let the silence hold me instead of destroy me. Just for a day.
“I was sixteen when my father tried to sell me,” she says, voice even, like she’s reciting someone else’s story. “He owedmoney to a dangerous man, and I was the best form of currency.”
My stomach twists. I don’t speak.
Lula sips her tea, eyes locked on something far beyond the porch rail. The forest stretches around the house like a secret too old to tell—dark, endless, humming with wind. Branches sway and whisper, and for a moment, her expression shifts—soft, faraway, like she’s standing somewhere else entirely. Somewhere she lost something. Or left it behind.
