Chapter 6

Tessy’s POV

When Drey walked in with her-barely breathing, her body drenched in blood and mud-I knew everything was about to change.

She didn’t look like a girl. She looked like a ghost. Limp in his arms, face swollen, bruises everywhere. Blood soaked her side, and her lip was split clean open. But it was her eyes-blank, unfocused-that really shook me.

“Her name is Clarissa,” Drey said, voice strained as he laid her on the couch. “She was on a border patrol. Alone.”

“Alone?” I echoed. “In that condition?”

He gave a sharp nod. “They left her to die.”

My stomach twisted. I didn’t ask who “they” were. It didn’t matter yet. What mattered was the girl who was clinging to life in our living room. And the fear I saw lingering under her silence.

We worked quickly. Drey cleaned her wounds while I ran for the healer’s herbs. I had to bite back the lump in my throat every time she flinched-even in sleep.

“She can’t be more than eighteen,” I whispered once, carefully pressing a salve to a deep gash along her ribs. “Who would do this to her?”

Drey didn’t answer. His jaw clenched tight, his eyes colder than I’d seen in years.

When we finally moved her to the guest room and tucked the blankets around her, I sat at her bedside and watched her chest rise and fall-shallow, but steady.

She survived. That was all I cared about.

For now.

………..…………………………………..

The next morning, I brought her soup and clean water.

She was awake—but still. Frozen like prey, like she was waiting for someone to strike her down.

I kept my voice soft.

“Hey. I’m Tessy. Drey’s sister.”

Nothing.

I told her what was in the soup. She didn’t respond, but she didn’t turn away either. That was enough for me.

I knew that kind of silence. The kind that came from being stepped on too many times. From learning that words didn’t protect you. That kindness was always a trap.

So, I didn’t push her.

I just came in every day, talked about nothing-weather, meals, silly gossip-and left the door open.

Let her choose to listen or not. Let her see that not everyone demanded something in return.

…………………………………………..

Three days in, I noticed her hand linger on the sheets.

She touched the fabric like she didn’t believe it was real.

I smiled. “They’re soft, right? I used to save them for guests-but I figured you deserved something better than scratchy linen.”

She didn’t smile, but her lips parted slightly, like maybe she wanted to.

That night, I cried a little after she fell asleep.

Not because I pitied her.

But because I saw pieces of myself in her-in the way she held everything in, like showing emotion was a weakness. Like being seen meant being punished.

I remembered that feeling all too well.

………………………………………………

One morning, I found her curled up in the corner of the bed, knees pulled to her chest. Her breathing was shallow. She didn’t hear me come in.

A nightmare, I realized.

I sat on the edge of the bed and reached out-slowly, gently.

“Clarissa,” I said softly.

She jolted awake with a gasp, fists raised like she was ready to fight her way out.

But when she heard my voice, she stilled.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”

Her hands trembled, but she didn’t speak. I placed a cup of tea in her hand without a word.

Her fingers brushed mine. Cold. Fragile.

But she didn’t let go.

……………………………………………..

That night, I sat outside her room for a while, listening to her breathing even out. And I made a silent promise: I’d be the one person in her life who didn’t want anything from her.

No answers. No loyalty. No debt.

Just healing.

Just time.