They sat in silence for what felt like forever—Maya and Jordan—both carrying stories too heavy for most hearts. The morning light outside the museum filtered through stained glass, painting broken colors across their skin.
Maya looked down at the locket again. The boy beside her in the picture—Jordan—had been the one holding her hand when the house filled with smoke. She remembered now. Bits and pieces.
"You pulled me out," she whispered.
Jordan nodded. "Your stepmother had already left. She locked the room. I came in through the window and carried you out."
"But my brother…"
Jordan lowered his head. "I tried. The fire spread fast. I didn't get to him in time."
Tears spilled down Maya's cheeks. "He was only eight."
"I know," Jordan whispered. "I still hear his scream."
It wasn't just grief anymore. It was grief with memory—sharpened by truth. The locked doors. The smoke. The scream.
Maya's voice trembled. "They made it look like I did it. My own father let them say I killed him.
"Because if the truth came out—about the abuse, the neglect—he'd lose everything. His reputation. His career. His power."
Maya stared at the Raven Woman sculpture again. "I was a child," she said, more to herself than him. "And they turned me into a villain to cover their sins."
Jordan didn't respond. He didn't need to.
She stood, hands clenched.
"No more running," she said. "No more silence."
"What will you do?"
She looked at him, her voice steady:
"I'll finish what they tried to bury."
---
Later that day, Maya sat at her small desk in the shelter. She opened her laptop and began writing—not fiction this time.
But truth.
A story about a girl locked in a burning room.
About how justice can be manipulated by power.
About healing.
And reclaiming your name.
Jordan watched her from the doorway, silent, but proud.
He had brought her to the fire. She had chosen to walk through it.