Page 99 of The Monster's Daughter

Night falls in full. Beneath mosquito net canvas, inside my tent, I can’t sleep. My muscles ache. My mind hums. I tug the small journal from my kit—blank pages waiting. The stylus feels foreign but needed.

I start writing:

The air is full of ghosts tonight—ashes, embers, memory. But there is light. Children running between tents like sparks. A girl with scales chasing laughter. I have not forgotten war. It sings in my scars. Yet tonight, I choose to hear hope.

I pause, heart hammering. Then:

We are here. We are present. We are stitching broken things together. This galaxy is still broken. But it’s learning. And so am I.

I press the stylus down, close the page. Sit with the buzz of night outside: distant cries, generator hums, the soft voice of wind. I feel Kage’s presence cross the tent flap. His silhouette appears. He kneels beside me.

“I smelled smoke on your hands,” he murmurs. “You’re not okay.”

I lean into him. “I don’t want to be okay. I want to matter.”

He presses a kiss to my temple. “You already do.” He rests his forehead to mine. We hold silence like prayer.

Later, Natalie nudges between us, still half asleep, reaching for both our hands. I cradle her, thumb brushing her ear. She murmurs, “I like this chapter we’re in.”

I promise: “Me too, baby. Me too.”

And for now, that promise is enough.