XXV. The Girl Who Listened

I've jumped through a dozen worlds since I'd killed her, and I was still seeing her eyes every time I closed mine. That wide, terrified look just before the light left them.

I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself I’d done worse. And I have. But why was I so affected this time?

Lately, the A’hura inside me has been humming like something restless. Like something wounded. I've taken up smoking the Veil to quiet it…the earthy taste, the smell of rich spices, the illusion of calm. I enjoyed the way the smoke curled from my lips and vanished into the air. The way memories should.

That night, I found her again.

She was sitting in a folding chair inside a homeless shelter one town over, listening to a woman unravel. Her presence was small and unassuming: just a girl in an over-sized black cardigan, hands folded in her lap, her head tilted slightly as she listened.

The woman spoke through tears about giving up her child. The shame. The loneliness. The way people looked at her even as she tried to convince herself that she’d done the right thing.

And the girl just listened. No judgment. No false comfort. When the woman’s voice cracked, she reached forward and held her hands, whispering something too soft to hear.

The woman cried harder. Then she hugged her.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “You’re the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m burning for my sins.”

She smiled faintly. “Then come back next week. We’ll keep putting out the fires.”

When the woman left, she noticed me.

I didn’t move. I just sat there in the back corner, the smoke rising steadily from the Veil between my fingers.

She walked over quietly, without any hesitation. That's interesting. Most versions of her who lay eyes on me want to run in the opposite direction.

“Hey,” she said, sitting beside me. “I’m Liya.”

“I know,” I said coldly.

She smiled politely at that, the way people smile at something they don’t understand yet. “And you are?”

Another interesting fact to file away. No other version has ever asked for my name.

“You can call me Matt.”

“Matt,” she repeated, like she was trying the word on her tongue. “You look like you’ve got something you want to say. Or something you’re trying not to.”

I laughed at that. It sounded hollow and bitter.

Still, she smiled. "What's funny? I could use a laugh."

“It's nothing," I said, exhaling slowly. I watched as her shoulders relaxed, just slightly. The Veil was working its magic on her too. "It's just…I’m usually the one who listens. The one who watches." I took another drag before I continued. "And it’s exhausting sometimes.”

“I can imagine.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “People think listening is easy. It’s not. It’s carrying pieces of other people around with you.”

I looked at her then. Really looked. She had that same light all the others had: gentle, innocent, and doomed. “You’re good at this,” I said.

She shrugged. “It’s easier to listen to strangers. They don’t expect you to fix them.”

For a moment, I wanted to say nothing. But the smoke was getting to me, and something slipped past my guard.

“I’ve done things,” I said quietly. “Things that don’t wash off. There’s no forgiveness for them.”

She didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, studying me. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

Her smile faded. “What if forgiveness isn’t about what you’ve done? What if it’s about what you decide to carry?”

I looked at her, unamused. “You wouldn’t say that if what I've done was to you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “Maybe not. But it would still be true.”

The silence stretched. The smoke between us curled and disappeared.

She stood, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “I’ll be back next week if you want to talk again.”

“Maybe I'll be here.”

"I hope you are." She offered me one last smile that was kind and soft and tired, and then walked away.

I watched her go until the door closed. Then I finished the Veil and ground it out beneath my boot.

I didn’t go back to that shelter again. It was better that way. For both of us.

The search continues.

M.

Up Next: The Girl Who Lived to Drink