May, Savy, and I became close—closer than I ever thought I could be with anyone again. I even went to meet the other kids to tell them I was the bad one. Somehow, they forgave me, and within a few months, almost every child on that street knew my name.
One afternoon, Savy asked me to follow her to give her mother the portrait I had drawn. I thought we were going to her house, but she simply said,
"Just follow me, Lila. Don't talk."
I obeyed. With Savy, questions were useless.
We walked for a long while until the houses faded and the path grew quiet. I followed her silently as she wanted, the crunch of dry leaves beneath our feet sounding like whispers of the dead. The air grew colder as we moved deeper in.
There were graves. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Some fresh, some old, all staring back at me like open wounds in the earth. The graves scattered like broken teeth across the land. I could barely breathe.The air was heavy, damp, and carried that smell I can't describe but smells familiar. When we reached the end of the road, I froze.
"We're almost there," Savy said softly, clutching the portrait to her chest. Her voice trembled, and I noticed her hands shaking.
The closer we got, the louder my heart became. The wind brushed against my skin, but it didn't feel like wind. It felt like fingers. Cold, invisible fingers crawling over me,reminding me of everything I'd done, everything buried, and everything still bleeding inside me.
Savy stopped in front of a small grave, its wooden cross tilted and fading. She knelt and placed the portrait gently on the ground, brushing the dirt away with her small, trembling fingers.
"This is my mom," she said, her voice fragile. "She died last year. I wanted her to see what I drew."
For a moment, I stood there frozen. My mouth opened, but no words came out. Her grief felt like a mirror of mine — except hers was innocent. Mine was carved from blood and fire.
She smiled through her tears. "I think she'd like it."
"Yeah…" I managed to say, my throat tightening. "She would."
And then I realized something. Maybe this was what redemption looked like — not forgiveness, but small, quiet moments like this, painted in grief and love. Where you missed someone you love so dearly that left without proper goodbye.
"Let's go," she said softly.
"You can take your time, Savy. Spend a while with your mum," I replied, my voice echoing faintly among the graves.
"She needs to rest," she murmured. "She had a lot of troubles to herself when she was here."
She walked ahead, her tiny shoes brushing dead leaves. I followed behind, watching her silhouette fade and reappear between crooked tombstones. The wind was still, but I could hear faint whispers, as though the graves breathed. Maybe they were furious seeing a hand drenched in blood. My mind shifted to another thought
I thought of my own mother then—how long it's been since I visited her. I used to hate her for leaving me here alone. But it wasn't her fault. He took her away. That bastard took everything away.
Savy slowed down and waited for me to catch up. Her eyes were distant, glimmering with something I couldn't name.
"Mum died because of me," she said suddenly.
"Don't say that, Savy," I muttered, my hand trembling slightly as I patted her back. Her skin was cold.
"Thank you, Lila. I'd drawn portraits for her since last year, so she'd know I'd grown up. But none looked as beautiful as the one you made."
I tried to smile, but my throat tightened.
"You're welcome, Savy. Just... don't blame yourself anymore, okay?"
She smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. As we walked out of the graveyard, I noticed her limp. Her ankles were swollen, bruised—too much for a ten-year-old.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
She looked up at me, her smile strange. "Not anymore."
Something about the way she said it made my chest tighten. For a brief moment, I thought I saw someone,something,standing among the graves behind us. Then it was gone.
I walked up to her and knelt down, stretching my arms behind me. "Get on my back," I said quietly.
She just stood there, frozen. I turned around to face her. "C'mon, kiddo. I won't bite."
She smacked my back with her tiny hand before climbing up. "Ouch! That hurts!" I said, pretending to wince. She giggled softly, wrapping her arms around my neck as I lifted her.
We continued down the narrow path, the sun dimming behind a haze of clouds. I took slow, steady steps, letting her feel the breeze and listen to the whispering trees.
"I don't want her to see me sick," she said suddenly, her voice trembling.
I said nothing. I thought she wanted silence, but her next words came like a knife through my chest.
"Mum died because of my sick heart."
I froze for a moment, then kept walking. "What do you mean?"
"She was beaten to death for going to the city to steal drugs for me. The money she had wasn't enough, and they refused to sell it to her. She took the drugs and tried to run."
My steps faltered. I could barely breathe.
"Even with the pain from the beating, she managed to bring it home," Savy continued, her voice breaking, "and she died beside me in the morning."
Her tears soaked into my shoulder, warm against my cold skin. I couldn't speak. My throat burned as tears blurred my vision. I didn't understand why the world chose certain souls to punish—why innocence had to pay so much for being alive.
I just kept walking, her heartbeat faint against my back, like a fragile reminder that pain could still breathe.
Pains have voices-diferent voices.