The journey from Grandma's house to the new town was quiet, tense—like holding your breath under water. We didn't take the main roads. Mama said it was safer that way. I didn't ask why. I just held Lala close, the teddy bear with one ear missing, and stared out the bus window as the trees zipped by. Every bump made my stomach twist, not from the ride, but from what we were leaving behind. I thought I would miss Grandma's house, but I didn't. Not even a little.
Mama didn't speak much during the ride. She just clutched the two bags we had—like if she let go, everything inside would vanish. Her eyes scanned the road like they were tracing ghosts only she could see. I wanted to ask if we were really safe now, but I was afraid of the answer.
When we reached the town, it smelled different. Less like smoke and anger, more like dust and possibility. There were trees that bent kindly over the sidewalks and strangers who didn't stare too long. Still, I didn't feel safe. Not really. Just… invisible. And for a while, that was enough.
The apartment was nothing like a home, but it was a roof. Two rooms above an old tailor's shop, with walls thin enough to hear the couple downstairs argue about everything—from politics to who forgot the salt. The floor creaked under every step, and the kitchen window didn't shut properly, letting in mosquitoes and cold air. But after the house of blood and the house of silence, this space—even in all its brokenness—felt like possibility.
We moved in with just two bags and a kettle my mother refused to let go of. "We've got what matters," she told me with forced optimism, setting the kettle on the counter like it was a trophy. I nodded. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe this new town could scrub the past off us like soap on raw skin.
But I still couldn't sleep.
At night, I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks, wondering if this place had ghosts too—maybe not the kind that slammed doors or moved chairs, but the kind that lived in the spaces behind your eyes. My chest would tighten in the dark. I'd clutch Lala, my teddy bear, who had lost an ear on the night we escaped. She was the only softness left in my life, the only thing that hadn't changed completely.
The tailor downstairs hummed through the floorboards. It sounded like grief in a song. My mother said it was a lullaby, but I knew better. I'd learned what grief sounded like when it sat across from you at dinner and pretended not to cry.
My mother found work almost immediately—early mornings cleaning patient rooms in the town hospital. She came home each night with tired feet and red hands, smelling like bleach and longing. Her back was always a little more bent, her smile a little more strained. But she never missed a single bedtime kiss. Not once.
I remember her kneeling beside me one evening, brushing my hair with fingers that trembled. "We're safe now, baby. We're safe."
But her eyes darted to the window every time she said it.
We didn't talk about the night we left. Not out loud. Not even in whispers. But it lived between us like a shadow with its own breath. I wanted to ask her what happened to Daddy. Where he went. If he was dead. If he was looking for us. But I didn't. Because some questions pull answers out of dark places you can't unsee.
Then one day, she came home different.
There was laughter in her voice. Not loud, just a small echo of who she used to be. She had soup with her—real soup, not the watered-down one she usually made—and a pink thermos. She said, "I made a friend." Her name was Nurse Ivie.
Nurse Ivie was tall and smelled like lavender and strong tea. She didn't look at us with pity. She didn't flinch when my mother said she was separated. She smiled like we were people and not just stories wrapped in skin. She had a daughter too.
Lisa.
Lisa came over the next day. She was my age but felt older. She walked into our apartment like she owned it. Dropped her bag, looked around, and said, "This place smells like old people."
I hated her immediately. But she didn't care. She called me "quiet mouse" and dared me to race her down the stairs. She climbed onto our table to dance. She made everything loud.
And I started liking the noise.
Lisa was wild. She didn't care what anyone thought. She threw water balloons at strangers, made fun of boys, and once painted her fingernails with a permanent marker. She didn't ask about the scar on my arm. She didn't question why I flinched when someone shouted outside. She didn't treat me like I was glass.
And somehow… that made me feel whole.
My mother laughed more when Lisa and Ivie visited. She even started wearing earrings again, tiny gold hoops I hadn't seen since we lived in the old house. She'd hum while making rice, talk about saving money, and once, I caught her scribbling into a notebook—plans for a future. Our future.
But even then, in the warmth of that fragile peace, I could feel the cold waiting behind the door.
I was just a little girl. But even I knew: happiness never stayed long with people like us.
Sometimes I'd lie awake and listen to the wind rattle the broken window pane. I'd imagine my father's shadow stretching through the hallway, looking for us. I'd pull Lala closer and whisper stories into her soft, worn fur—stories where my mother was a queen, and I was her brave warrior, and monsters never found us again.
But I knew better.
Monsters always find a way.
Even in new towns.
Even behind locked doors.
Even when you pretend they're gone.
They wait. They watch. And sometimes, they smile before they strike.