Book 3: Noelle
HEALING DOESN'T HAPPEN ALL AT ONCE. It sneaks up on you in small, embarrassing ways.
At first, it felt wrong that the world didn't end when everything else did. That it kept moving. That the sky still changed colors at sunset and birds still showed up in the morning like nothing had happened. I thought there would be some kind of sign. Like the thunder, fire, or even silence so heavy it couldn't be ignored. But there wasn't. Just quiet. And breathing. And the uncomfortable realization that we were still here.
We didn't bury everything properly. Not the dead, not the memories, not the fear that still lived in our bones. We simply walked away from the ruins and told ourselves that survival counted as closure. That if we could still breathe, still move, still wake up in the morning, then the worst must be over.
It wasn't.
We came to the cabin because it was far enough from everything that hurt us. Trees thick enough to muffle the past. A roof strong enough to keep the nightmares from falling directly onto our heads. Miss Alice said it was temporary, but we all knew better.
Somewhere safe, somewhere far enough away that no one would look for us, somewhere we can rebuild our lives. I believed her, mostly because I didn't know what else to believe. The woods wrapped around the place like a shield, and after everything we'd lived through, that felt like mercy.
But the first weeks were awful. Quiet isn't peaceful when you're used to surviving noise. Every creak of the floor made my chest coil. Every sound outside sent my thoughts racing. I slept light, like my body was waiting for permission to panic. I kept expecting something to break through the trees and remind us why we were hiding. But at night, I remember the moment the academy burned down and how the Men in Black took our home from us.
Miss Alice also changed. Drastically. Like she was afraid of making mistakes she couldn't take back. During daytime, she cooked because we needed to eat, not because she wanted to. Some nights she sat by the window for a long time, staring at nothing, and I never asked what she was thinking.
Prim even barely rested. When she wasn't doing the chores, she was watching the woods. When she talked about her father, she didn't sound sad. She sounded certain. Like saying his name enough times would pull him back into the world.
And me? I felt everything. I always have.
Feelings don't knock before they come in. They just show up and make themselves at home. Back then, it was too much. Grief piled on top of guilt, fear tangled with anger, and I couldn't tell which emotions were mine and which ones I'd borrowed. I thought that meant I was weak. That if I were stronger, I wouldn't feel so much. But I was wrong. Healing taught me that. Not all at once. I learned that feeling deeply isn't a flaw. It's just harder. I learned how to sit with emotions instead of letting them drag me under. I learned that numb doesn't mean safe, and silence doesn't mean okay.
That's how I changed. I stopped pretending I was fine when I wasn't. I stopped trying to outrun the memories. Some nights, I let them come. Moments that still hurt when I think about them. I don't flinch anymore. I breathe through it. I remind myself that pain doesn't get to decide who I am.
Prim hasn't learned that yet though.
When she talks about her father, her voice doesn't crack. Sometimes it scares me how sure she sounds. Like doubt never even knocks. Miss Alice never corrects her though. She listens, nods, and lets Prim talk. But I notice the way her hands tighten when Prim turns away. The way her shoulders stiffen, like she's holding something in place inside herself. Miss Alice has always been strong, but this is different. This is restraint. This is someone choosing not to say the things that might shatter what little balance we've built.
We settle into routines because routines are easier than thinking. I chop wood. Prim does the yardwork. Some days, laughter slips out before we realize we're allowed to make that sound again. It feels strange every time, like borrowing joy from a future we're not sure exists yet. But at night, we go silent again. The wind sounds like whispers when it moves through the trees, and I find myself listening even when I tell myself not to. Ophelia senses it too.
Sometimes, when I'm lying awake, I feel something shift. Like standing on the edge of a memory you haven't lived yet. Prim's emotions hum faintly through the cabin, but layered beneath them is something else. Something I couldn't describe. It doesn't feel violent. It feels… off. Like a hand resting on her back.
I don't tell Miss Alice. Not because I don't trust her, but because I'm still learning how to trust what my gift is telling me. And also, healing taught me that reacting too fast can be just as dangerous as doing nothing.
One day, I walk through the woods and let the air brush against my skin. Near the river where a huge willow tree stood, I saw Miss Alice weeping. I wanted to comfort her, but I decided to give her the space she needs. I let it remind me that endings don't always mean erasure. Sometimes they're just pauses, breaths taken before something else begins.
We survived. That much is true.
But survival doesn't mean the story is over.
It means the hard parts change shape.
And as the days stretch longer and Prim's growth became evident, I feel it settle into my bones that the quiet understanding that healing was never meant to protect us from what comes next. It was meant to prepare us.
We didn't come here to disappear.
We came here to learn how to stand again.
And when whatever's been waiting finally steps out of the dark, I know this much for sure:
I won't look away this time. And I hope healing will start here on after.