He had seen me when I was smoke and blood and terror.
And still, the promise he made was not that I would be pretty.
Not that I would be fixed.
Not that people would stop staring.
Only that I would know I got out.
My mother’s voice echoed in my memory.
Have one good moment.
I looked at Caleb through tears.
“You gave me more than one.”
He shook his head.
“No. You lived long enough to take them.”
That was the thing about truth.
It did not undo the fire.
It did not smooth my skin or restore my childhood or give Caleb back the family he thought he had.
But it changed the shape of the scars.
They were not proof that I had been left.
They were proof that a nine-year-old boy had run into flames because a girl he did not know was still inside.
