Noon came quietly.

  Birdsong filtered through the open windows, and the house smelled of rice and adobo. Seraphine sat at the table, finishing her lunch while her aunt moved around the kitchen, humming.

  “I might go for a walk,” Seraphine said casually. “Just around town. I haven’t seen it in years.”

  Her aunt smiled, wiping her hands on a towel. “Of course, Sera. Be careful.”

  Seraphine stood, slung her bag over her shoulder.

  As she reached the doorway, she paused.

  She turned her head just enough to catch her uncle’s eyes from across the room.

  A look passed between them.

  Not a threat. Not a warning.

  An understanding.

  Then she stepped outside.

  The town felt smaller than she remembered.

  New stores crowded the main street—cheap cafés, phone repair stalls, a pharmacy where an old bakery used to be. Faces passed her by, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. People laughed. Children ran ahead of their parents. Life continued without knowing what it had buried.

  Seraphine walked without a map. She didn’t need one.

  Her feet carried her where memory lived.

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  The forest park sat at the edge of town, fenced off and forgotten. The sign at the gate had rusted nearly beyond recognition. Grass grew wild between cracked stones. The place had been closed for years.

  She slipped past the broken gate.

  The air changed immediately—cooler, heavier. The canopy of tall trees swallowed the light, shadows pooling along the narrow path. Leaves crunched under her steps.

  She remembered running here after school.

  Running because the house was loud. Because the house watched. Because the house breathed too close.

  This place used to feel safe.

  At the far end, the hut still stood.

  Leaning. Warped. Boards splitting with age.

  Still there.

  Her chest tightened.

  She stopped several steps away.

  Memory didn’t come gently.

  It slammed into her.

  —

  She was smaller then.

  Backpack dropped at the door, breath still fast from running. The hut smelled like damp wood and earth. She used to sit on the floor, knees to her chest, listening to birds, pretending the world ended at the trees.

  Until footsteps followed her.

  Until the door creaked open.

  She remembered freezing.

  Remembered the sound of breathing behind her before words came. Before hands came. Before her hiding place learned her name.

  She remembered staring at the wall because looking away was easier. Remembered counting cracks in the wood. Remembered thinking if I stay quiet, it will end faster.

  She remembered walking home afterward, dirt on her knees, shame clinging like sweat. Remembered scrubbing her skin raw that night.

  And then remembering it happened again.

  And again.

  —

  Seraphine blinked.

  The hut stood silent now, hollow and broken, like it had been waiting for her.

  She stepped closer.

  Then stopped.

  Metal creaked behind her.

  The gate.

  She didn’t turn immediately.

  She didn’t need to.

  “Just on time, Uncle,” she said lightly.

  When she looked back, he stood there—framed by the open gate, breath slightly uneven, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a coincidence.

  The same silhouette.

  Older. Weaker. Still unmistakable.

  Once, that shape had ruled her nightmares.

  Now, it only made her smile.

  Not wide. Not kind.

  Anticipating.

  She turned fully to face him, the forest closing in around them, the hut at her back.

  The place that used to break her.

  The place that remembered everything.

  And for the first time, she didn’t feel small standing there.

  She felt ready.