CHAPTER 10: What my body remembers

POV: Imani

The door clicked shut behind me, and for a moment, I just stood there, taking in the silence that settled around me. It felt strange. No one knocked or called my name, and for the first time since I’d stepped off that transport, I felt like I was completely alone. My body didn’t seem to know what to do with the solitude. I remained in the middle of the room, my arms wrapped around my torso, even though the small fire in the hearth crackled warmly. Someone had clearly come in while I was out. The bed had been made, and a cup of something warm had been left on the table, though it was now cold. I started to wonder who would have bothered, but then found I didn’t have the energy to care.

I didn’t touch the cup. I just stared at it for a while, my thoughts drifting to somewhere else without settling on anything in particular.

My legs suddenly gave way, and before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the bed frame. I drew my knees closer to my chest, slipping into my familiar posture from childhood, one I used whenever everything around me became too much and heavy. The stone floor was cool against my clothes, but I barely noticed it. I had spent the entire day being useful, staying alert, answering questions, and meeting everyone else’s needs. There had always been something that needed my attention, someone waiting for me to do something. Now there was no one left to perform for, and I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore.

I tried to cry, but nothing came out of me. My throat tightened, my eyes burned, yet the tears wouldn’t just fall out. I was too exhausted, perhaps, or there was simply too much going on inside me for any of it to come out. The grief settled somewhere deep behind my ribcage, leaving me with a dry, hollow ache that wouldn’t ease no matter what I did. I pressed my palms against my eyes and took a few slow breaths, the same way I’d taught countless nervous people to do over the years. Inhale, hold for a few seconds, then exhale. I focused on the count, trying to quiet my thoughts, but my mind had other plans as It began to wander, moving away from the chaos I’d witnessed earlier, Naomi’s selective truths, and the wound still throbbing faintly beneath its bandage. Instead, it settled on someone I hadn’t allowed myself to think about in several months now.

Nico.

Just thinking about his name alone felt so uncomfortable. I’d spent so long keeping certain memories tucked away deep in the back of my mind, that bringing one of them back into the open almost felt like a mistake. I knew what came with remembering him. And I knew just how much it hurt to think about what we’d had and what I’d lost, but tonight, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from doing it.

The memory came back with a warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. It took me back to late spring, three years into the chaos, when we’d set up our camp in the ruins of an old orchard just outside a nameless town. The trees had grown wild over the years. Some were completely dead, their branches bare, while a few other stubborn ones had managed to blossom. White petals drifted down whenever the breeze moved through the branches, and I remembered how peaceful it had felt sitting there, even with the world outside that little patch of land still falling apart.

Nico had found me beneath one of the trees, sitting with my knees tucked up in the air and my sketchbook opened on my lap. I hadn’t been drawing. I’d been staring at the same page for God knew how long, the pencil resting between my fingers because I needed something to keep my hands occupied.

“You’ve been staring at that same page for twenty minutes,” he said, dropping down beside me without asking.

That was just how he was. He never seemed to worry about whether his presence was wanted or not, yet somehow, he never made me feel crowded. With anyone else, I might have been irritated by the interruption. But with him, I barely thought about it.

“I’m thinking,” I replied.

“About what?”

“Nothing you’d find interesting.”

“Try me.” He stretched his legs out in front of him, settling against the tree trunk behind us. He looked completely at ease, as though there was nowhere else important enough he needed to be. “We’ve got time. Nobody’s shooting at us today. Around here, that counts as a holiday.”

I laughed, and I remembered how easily it had come. There was no effort whatsoever behind it, no need to check my surroundings or wonder whether I was being careless. I had simply found something funny, and he’d made me laugh.

“I was thinking,” I said after a moment, looking down at the sketchbook still sitting on my lap, “what I’d do if I ever found a truly safe place. You know, somewhere really safe. Not just another temporary haven where you’re always waiting for the next bad thing to happen.”

“You’d draw,” he said immediately, nodding towards the sketchbook. “You’d probably open a clinic as well, drive everyone crazy by fussing over them, and then you’d still find the time to draw once things settled down.”

I turned to look at him. “That’s oddly specific.” I said.

“I pay attention, hunny.” He gave me a light shrug, but his eyes stayed on me. “You’re the most useful person I’ve ever met, and the only real time you spend on yourself is with that sketchbook. I really do be noticing things like that.”

I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that no one had ever noticed what I did for other people. They noticed when I treated their wounds, when I found supplies for them, and when I stayed awake through the night to make sure someone else’s fever didn’t get worse. They noticed what I could do for them. But, Nico noticed the things I did when no one needed anything from me. I lowered my eyes to the page, suddenly conscious of how much that meant to me, and let the silence settle peacefully between us.

It was a rare thing honestly, being around someone who didn’t expect me to fill every quiet moment with conversation. I didn’t have to explain myself or find something useful to say. I could just sit beside him without doing anything, and he would never make me feel as though I owed him more.

“Hey,” he said softly after a while. “I mean it. Wherever you end up, whatever happens to us out here, if we get separated or the world decides to do something terrible and I lose track of you for a while…”

“Don’t Nic.”

“I’m not being morbid. I’m just being honest my princess.”

He turned towards me, and whatever I had been preparing to say disappeared when I met his eyes. He wasn’t smiling now. There was no teasing in his expression, and only a sincerity that made it difficult for me to look away. He wasn’t asking me for anything, and he wasn’t making the promise because he expected something in return. He simply just wanted me to know.

“I’ll find you,” he said. “No matter where life leads you. It doesn’t matter how long it takes.”

I swallowed, looking back down at my hands. “That’s a big promise for a guy who can’t even keep track of his own boots.”

I tried to make it sound like a joke, but my voice had already gone soft. I didn’t want him to notice how much I wanted to believe him,and how badly I wanted there to be someone in the world who would keep looking for me even when finding me became difficult.

“I know exactly where my boots are,” he replied, his familiar grin returning back on his face, also gaining one from me. “I just enjoy making promises to you. You don’t let anyone else do that, so I thought I’d change that a little.”

I shook my head, but I couldn’t stop smiling. After a moment, I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder. He went still briefly, probably caught off guard, before relaxing beside me. I remember being aware of the warmth of his arm against mine and the steady rise and fall of his calm breathing. Neither of us said anything after that. We simply sat beneath a tree that was barely hanging on, its last few flowers falling around us, and for an entire afternoon, I didn’t feel the need to think about what might happen when we got up and returned to camp.

That was the only time in eight years that I’d truly felt loved without any sort of strings attached. I hadn’t needed to earn it by being useful, prove that I deserved it, or worry about what someone might expect from me in return. Nico had simply made room for me in his life, and for a little while, I’d allowed myself to believe I could have something good without eventually losing it.

The memory faded away, leaving me on the cold floor of a stranger’s room, my arms still wrapped around my knees. I lowered my head on my knees, pressing my cheek hard against them as the ache in my chest grew heavier. I missed him. I missed the way he’d spoken to me, the ease of being around him, and the person I had been when I could sit beside someone without constantly preparing myself for what might go wrong. It hurt in a way I hadn’t expected, deeper than the fear I’d felt that day, and deeper than the grief I had over Malik, even deeper than the unsettling shock of the mark I now carried. I couldn’t go back to that afternoon or recover what we’d had. Whatever remained of it existed only in my memory now, and tonight, that didn’t feel like it was enough for me.

A sudden rattle against the window jolted me out of my trance. I flinched, my heart immediately picking up speed as the shutter shook again. It was probably the wind, whipping through the narrow streets of the compound, but I was already on my feet before I’d properly considered what was going on. I crossed the room and reached for the window, annoyed with myself for being startled by something so ordinary after everything I’d faced over the past day. I just wanted to secure the shutter and get back to the quiet.

Then I noticed something caught in the frame. I stopped with my hand on the latch. A small piece of fabric had snagged on a rough edge of the wood where the shutter met the sill. It was faded blue, and worn soft from years of use, with a loose thread hanging from its torn edge. I stared at it with total disbelief, my fingers hovering just above the material, and a strange uneasiness beginning to settle over me.

I knew that fabric. I would have recognized it anywhere. It was a scrap of my scarf. The one I’d deliberately left behind, tucked beneath a loose floorboard at an outpost three weeks ago. That was the night a courier had found me and delivered the message that my mother wanted to discuss the Sinclairs with me.

I hadn’t misplaced it. I hadn’t forgotten it. I’d left it there intentionally, and I hadn’t told anyone what I’d done. Not the courier, not my mother, absolutely not anyone.

I slowly pulled my hand away from the latch, my eyes fixed on the faded blue fabric.

It was the scarf I’d never mentioned to anyone. Not even once.