The process of writing Thea's story was slow and painful. It was an excavation, a careful, deliberate digging through layers of grief and trauma to find the words that lay buried underneath.
They worked at the dining table in Kofi's apartment, the same table where she had first learned to draw again. It became their new headquarters, a space consecrated to this difficult, necessary work.
Kofi sat with his laptop open, his fingers poised over the keyboard. Thea sat across from him, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, her gaze fixed on a point on the wall just past his shoulder.
"Just start at the beginning," Kofi said gently. "Whatever that is for you."
The first day, she could not speak. She just sat there, the silence in the room a heavy, suffocating blanket. He did not push her. He just sat with her, the quiet hum of his laptop the only sound.
