Chapter 2: A Place That Felt Safe
Morning came quietly.
The air smelled like wet earth and hope. Dew covered the grass, sparkling under the early sunlight. I opened my eyes slowly, unsure of where I was. For a moment, fear returned like an old friend. But then I saw her.
Naledi.
She was sitting a few steps away, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring into the distance as if she'd been awake the whole night. I almost thought she was a dream—but the ache in my bones reminded me that none of this was imaginary.
She turned when she heard me move. "You slept," she said softly, a smile flickering on her lips.
I nodded. "You didn't?"
"I'm used to staying awake." She shrugged. "Old habit."
I sat up slowly, wrapping her hoodie tighter around my body. "Thank you... for last night."
"You don't have to thank me," she said. "I just didn't want you to be alone."
There was a strange warmth in her words. It was something I hadn't felt in a long time—sincerity.
She stood and stretched her arms toward the sky. Her movements were slow, almost graceful. I studied her from where I sat. She had a calm strength about her—not loud, not forceful, just... steady. The kind of strength that didn't need to prove itself.
"I have a place," Naledi said after a moment. "It's not far. We can go there if you want."
We. That word echoed in my chest. I hadn't been part of a "we" in so long.
I hesitated. "You trust me?"
"I trust my gut," she replied, picking up her small backpack. "And it tells me you need a safe place."
I followed her without saying another word.
The walk was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Naledi didn't ask questions, and I didn't offer answers. We moved through the trees, over a small hill, and down a narrow trail hidden beneath tall grass.
Finally, we reached it—a small wooden cabin, tucked away at the edge of a river. It looked abandoned, but when Naledi opened the door, I realized it was lived in—carefully, humbly.
A mattress sat in the corner, neatly covered in dark gray blankets. A few books were stacked against the wall. There was a gas stove, a kettle, and even a radio, though it looked old. Light poured in through a cracked window, making the inside glow with soft gold.
"You live here?" I asked in disbelief.
"For now," she said, placing her bag down. "It's not perfect, but it's safe. No one comes here."
I stepped in slowly, unsure if I belonged in a place like this. It was too clean. Too peaceful. Too... opposite of everything I'd known.
"You can rest," Naledi said, motioning to the mattress. "I'll make tea."
She moved like she'd done this a thousand times. There was comfort in her rhythm. A routine, even in chaos.
I sat on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do with my hands, unsure of how to exist without fear. My heart beat fast. I couldn't stop shaking, even though I wasn't cold.
"Zukhanyi," she said gently. "You're safe here."
Something broke in me at those words. I turned my face away, but a sob escaped before I could stop it. My body curled in on itself, shaking as I cried into my hands. I didn't even know what I was crying for. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing.
Naledi didn't try to hug me. She didn't try to quiet me. She just sat near me, close enough to feel, far enough not to suffocate. Her presence was the hug. Her silence was the comfort.
"I was... locked in a room," I finally said between tears. "For days. Weeks, maybe. I don't even know. They took everything from me."
She listened. Not just with her ears—but with her whole body. With patience.
"They hurt me," I whispered. "And then told me it was love."
Naledi's jaw tightened, but her voice stayed calm. "That's not love. That's cruelty."
I looked at her, really looked. Her eyes were darker now, stormy. There was pain in them too—old pain. She knew what it felt like.
"I thought I was crazy," I admitted.
"You're not crazy," she said. "You're still here. That means something."
We didn't talk after that. The silence wrapped around us like a blanket. I lay back on the mattress, eyes staring at the wooden ceiling. Naledi sat in the corner, sipping tea, watching the door like a quiet protector.
By sunset, she lit a small candle on the table and passed me a slice of bread with peanut butter. It was the first real food I'd had in days.
"I know it's not much," she said.
"It's everything," I replied, and meant it.
We ate in silence. Then, she pulled out a book from her stack and offered it to me.
"You read?"
I nodded slowly.
"It helps," she said. "Even when the world doesn't make sense."
That night, we slept in the same space. Not together—just... near. I lay on the mattress, she rested on the floor with her jacket as a pillow. She kept the candle burning until I fell asleep.
And for the second night in a row, I didn't dream of monsters. I dreamed of water. Of moonlight. Of someone whispering my name like it mattered.
Zukhanyi.