Maya spent the next three days writing.
Not just a journal or an article—she poured out every detail she could remember. Every word was a wound reopened. But for once, she wasn't writing for validation. She was writing to reclaim her story.
The shelter staff noticed the change. She was still quiet—but no longer invisible.
Even her laughter returned, soft and rare, like a flower blooming out of concrete.
But with clarity came danger.
One night, Jordan showed up with a warning in his eyes.
"They know," he said quietly.
Maya stiffened. "Who?"
"Your father's people. I hacked into one of the private servers—your name came up. They're monitoring your movements. Your story. They know you're trying to speak."
Maya closed her laptop, her heart thudding. "Will they come after me?"
"They already are."
He handed her a sealed envelope.
Inside was a photo—blurry, black and white—from a security camera. A man outside the shelter. Watching. Waiting.
"They won't kill you, Maya," Jordan said. "But they'll discredit you. Make you look unstable. Dangerous. Delusional. Like before."
Her hand trembled.
"Let them try," she said. "But this time… I'm not a little girl. I have people who believe me. And I have you."
Jordan's eyes softened, and for a brief moment, the wall between them cracked. He stepped closer.
"I never stopped believing in you," he said. "Even when you forgot who you were."
Their eyes locked. No more fear. Just connection. Truth. Pain. Hope.
And then, a knock on the shelter's front door.
It was the police.
"Miss Maya Adedeji?" one officer asked.
"Yes?"
"You're needed to come with us for questioning. There's been a formal complaint filed against you."
Maya blinked.
"What kind of complaint?"
The officer didn't answer. Just looked over her shoulder—at Jordan—and then back at her.
Maya stepped forward calmly. "Let me get my coat."
But as she turned back to Jordan, she whispered, "This is it, isn't it?"
He nodded.
"They're trying to erase you again."