Chapter 10 - The Unbroken Light
Late that afternoon, before leaving Seattle to start our new life, Camila and I drove down to the waterfront park near the ferry terminal.
The air was crisp and cool, smelling of saltwater and fresh pine. Seagulls circled high above the white foam of the waves, their calls echoing clearly over the rhythmic lap of the tide against the wooden piers.
We walked along the paved path, side by side, wearing simple sweaters and comfortable shoes. There were no cameras, no security guards trailing three steps behind us, no smart locks, and no thick silk curtains pulled shut against the afternoon sun.
I reached into my pocket, pulling out my father's old silver wire-rimmed glasses—the ones he used to wear when he taught us how to read financial ledgers at the dining room table.
I held them up to the light, watching the golden reflections of the setting sun dance across the thin glass lenses.
"He knew, didn't he?" Camila asked softly, leaning her shoulder against mine as we looked out toward the horizon. "Dad knew we would be strong enough."
"He didn't just know we were strong, Cami," I said, putting the glasses back into my pocket. "He gave us the tools. But we were the ones who had to survive the dark long enough to use them."
We stood together at the edge of the wooden railing, watching the sun dip below the Olympic Mountains, painting the sky in deep streaks of violet, gold, and burning crimson.
In the past, the dark had been something to fear—a time when heavy footsteps echoed outside our bedroom door, when silk curtains were drawn tight, and when the volume on the television was turned up to drown out our pain.
But as the stars began to appear one by one in the clear night sky above Seattle, I looked at my sister, feeling the steady, warm beat of her heart alongside mine.
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The dark was no longer a cage.
It was just the space between the sunset and a brand new day—a day that belonged entirely, beautifully, and unconditionally to us.
