Page 183 of Sage Haven

No longer hollow.

Just…imperfect.

And somehow, that was enough.

My scars were proof.

Proof I had survived.

And there were things—so many things—that kept me going now.

Through music, I was never truly alone.

Every song whispered that I belonged somewhere.

Through the people in my life.

Sam. Castor. Reich.

I was reminded I was worth something.

More than my scars.

More than the pain I had lived through.

And through myself, I was still here.

And I was breathing.

Every single breath was proof.

I had made it.

Even when I hadn’t wanted to.

I wandered through the room, letting my fingertips graze the piano keys as I passed. The faintest sound trembled through the air, a single note breaking the silence.

And then I saw it.

Something sitting on the low table, right beside a half-burned candle.

A pad of paper and a stylus resting on top.

Something inside me stirred.

Something forgotten.

A part of me I had tucked away, locked in some dark drawer and convinced myself I didn’t need anymore.

Poetry.

Words had always been my sanctuary.

A place I could pour out the things I couldn’t say out loud.

A way to bleed safely.

And I realized that it had been years since I’d let myself write.