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Maya’s room is small but warm, the scent of lavender hanging in the air. I pull back the covers with one hand and gently lower Maya onto the bed. She curls up in the blanket instinctively.

I hesitate for a moment, brushing my knuckles along her jaw in a feather-light caress. Then, I step back, leaving her to rest.

When I go back outside, Maya’s mother is already at the small outdoor table, pouring steaming tea into two chipped mugs. She glances up at me and gestures to the chair across from her. I sit, the mug warm between my palms.

For a moment, we remain silent, watching the light grow stronger as the sun climbs toward the horizon. Birds begin to stir in the trees, their songs tentative and sleepy.

Finally, Helen speaks, her voice quiet but steady. “Her nightmares started when she was six.”

I look up sharply, but she’s staring into her tea, her expression distant.

“My husband—Maya’s father—he got involved with the wrong people.” Her mouth twists with something between bitterness and grief. “Debts he couldn’t pay. Promises he couldn’t keep.”

I don’t respond. I know there’s more she needs to say.

“She was taken as collateral.” Her hands tremble slightly as she lifts the mug to her lips. “Dragged from our home one night while I was working a double shift.”

My hands clench the mug so tightly, the ceramic creaks.

“There was another child with her,” she continues. “A little boy. They were held together.” Her voice hitches, but she forces herself to go on. “Somehow, they managed to escape. My Maya, she found her way home alone.”

She finally looks at me then, guilt heavy in her eyes.

“Maya barely remembered anything about the event. The mind protects itself, you know? But the fear never left. It just...changed shape. Turned into nightmares she couldn’t explain.”

I swallow hard, my throat thick. The image of little Maya, scared and helpless, wounds me deeper than I would have expected.

“She never let anyone touch her when the nightmares came,” her mother whispers. “She even fought me. Always said she didn’t want to be a burden.”

I think of the way Maya clung to me. How she sought comfort without even realizing it.

“She has spent her whole life taking care of me,” Helen says, voice breaking. “She grew up too fast. Learned to carry everyone else’s pain because no one ever carried hers.”

A tear slips down her cheek, but she doesn’t wipe it away.

“I tried. God knows I tried. But I was broken, too. I was so busy surviving that I forgot how to live. And Maya, she deserved better.”

The shame in her voice is unbearable.

“She’s not a burden,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “Not to you. Not to anyone.”

Her mother lets out a weak laugh. “Try telling her that.”

“I will.” I lean forward, setting the mug down with a soft clink. “I intend to.”

She studies me for a long moment, as if weighing the truth of my words. Whatever she sees must satisfy her, because she nods slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“She’s stubborn,” she warns gently.

“So am I.”

Another period of silence stretches between us, but it feels lighter now, less raw.

“She has always been strong,” Maya’s mother says, almost to herself. “But she needs someone who sees her strength. Someone who doesn’t expect her to carry the world alone.”

“I know.” My chest aches with the sheer depth of it, the fierce protectiveness unfurling inside me like wildfire. “I see her.”

“I—” Helen hesitates. “I’m not always lucid. I don’t always remember her, and it hurts her, but she doesn’t say anything. If something ever happens to me, I don’t know what my little firebird will do. I’m all she has.”