Safe. The word felt strange and precious, like a pearl resting in her palm.
Her fingers twitched, brushing against crisp sheets, and moments later a warm hand enveloped hers. Zaria tilted her head slightly to find Angela, the nurse who had become her quiet strength, perched by the bed. The worry lines on her face gave way to a smile as soon as their gazes met.
"Welcome back, Zaria," Angela said, brushing a strand of hair from the girl's damp forehead. "You came through the surgery beautifully."
A faint smile curved Zaria's cracked lips. The sting in her throat bubbled forth, and she tried to speak, but only a faint whisper emerged. "Thank… you."
Angela shook her head, brushing Zaria's hand gently. "You don't have to thank me, my dear. You're strong — stronger than you know. You're going to make it."
Strong. The word felt foreign. Yet somehow, deep down, it felt like a seed planting itself in soil long dried by despair. Slowly, Zaria sank back into the pillows and drew a deep breath. It felt like victory.
Through the open window, faint morning light spilled across the room, and Zaria thought of how far she had come — a girl poisoned by cruelty, silenced by pain, brought across borders and seas for a chance to live. The thought brought tears to the edges of her lashes.
"Angela," she spoke softly, voice rasping but gaining strength, "what… what did the doctors say?"
Angela smiled and drew closer. "They said the surgery was a success. The poison that was in your body caused serious damage, especially to your throat and internal organs, but the team worked hard to remove as much as possible. You're going to need rest, therapy, and a lot of strength, but… you're going to be okay."
Okay. The word felt like a miracle.
Zaria closed her eyes for a moment, brushing away a lone teardrop as the thought sank in. The poison that had taken so much from her had been cleansed. The pain that had shaped so many nights of misery had been met with precision, care, and mercy.
"Will I be able to walk?" she asked quietly, voice shaking.
Angela smiled, brushing Zaria's hand with a feather-light touch. "The doctor said your legs will need time to recover. You've suffered long, and your muscles have weakened, but with therapy and persistence, you can walk again. The strength is within you, Zaria. You have the heart for this. The rest is a matter of time."
Zaria drew a deep breath and sank into silence, allowing the weight of those words to settle. Somewhere deep inside, under layers of trauma and despair, a tiny ember flared. An ember of belonging. An ember of belonging to herself, to a chance at life, to a future she had never thought she would have.
Through misted eyes, Zaria turned her gaze to the bedside table. The letter she had written for Linda was resting there, its edges faintly crumpled. She thought of the sister-like bond she shared with Linda, a bond that felt like a beacon guiding her through the storm.
"Thank you for keeping this for me," Zaria said quietly as Angela placed the letter in her hands.
Angela smiled, brushing Zaria's hand one more time. "Of course. Whatever gives you strength, we'll make sure it's always nearby."
Zaria pressed the paper to her chest and sank deeper into the pillows, the sting in her chest mixing with the warmth blooming within her heart. Whatever the future held — therapy, recovery, countless moments of fear and doubt — she felt, for the first time in a long while, that she was surrounded by hands that refused to let her fall.
Days turned into nights, and nights became days. Slowly, Zaria began to adjust to this new world — one where no one yelled at her for resting too long, where no one sneered if she smiled, where every hand offered strength and every voice spoke words of kindness.
Each morning, Angela came with soft greetings, brushing Zaria's hand and checking her vitals. Sometimes she read aloud from a book Zaria liked. Sometimes she simply sat with her, reminding her she was not alone. The bond between them deepened — one born not of obligation but of genuine care.
One afternoon, as the sun sank low beyond the hospital windows, Zaria spoke aloud the thoughts that had taken root within her heart.
"Angela," she said quietly, brushing a hand across the bed rail, "do you think… do you think I'll ever be free of it? The memories? The pain?"
Angela drew closer, brushing hair from Zaria's forehead and looking deeply into those hopeful yet frightened eyes. "The scars may remain, Zaria, but scars don't define you. What you have been through doesn't have to control where you're going. Healing takes time — in your body and in your heart. But every breath you take is a victory. Every step you make, every word you speak… that's you choosing life. Not what was done to you, but what you choose to build for yourself."
Fresh tears shimmered on Zaria's lashes, but this time they weren't tears of defeat. They were tears of belonging, of trust — trust in herself and in the hands that refused to leave her side.
"Thank you," she whispered, brushing the edge of the paper still resting in her hands. "Thank you for helping me hold on when I felt like letting go."
Angela smiled and pressed Zaria's hand between both of hers. "My dear girl, you are worth every moment. Never forget that."
In the days that followed, Zaria pushed herself harder. Slowly, with Angela and a team of dedicated therapists by her side, she began to stand. To walk a step. To whisper a word. To swallow a bite of food and drink a sip of water. To rise from the ashes of a life that had tried to bury her and claim a new one.
Each night, she would glance toward the faint glow of the hospital lamp and whisper a prayer — for strength, for belonging, for the future that was rising like a flame from the ruins. The poison was gone. The pain was being reshaped. The threads of belonging were being woven one moment at a time.
Through moments of doubt and moments of victory, Zaria came to understand one quiet, powerful truth: she was more than what had been done to her. More than the poison that tried to silence her. More than the hands that had tried to break her.
She was a flame that refused to be extinguished. A whisper that refused to be silenced. A heart that refused to surrender.
With Angela by her side, the hospital staff surrounding her like a quiet, loving army, and the cherished letter pressed to her chest, Zaria closed her eyes, allowing herself to sink deeper into rest. Not as a frightened girl, but as one choosing to rise.
Today was only one chapter.
Tomorrow was a page yet to be written.
And in that quiet space, bathed in light and warmth, Zaria promised herself this:
I will rise.
I will live.
I will be free.