The letter is soft at the edges, the paper yellowed like it has been holding its breath for years. Mira turns it over in her hands, tracing the curve of her mother's handwriting with a fingertip that trembles no matter how still she tries to be.
The ink is faded, but the loops of the cursive are unmistakable — delicate, careful, almost loving.
To my Mira,
Read this when you turn twelve.
If I am not there, it is because someone made sure I wouldn't be.
Remember this name: vuk.
Never trust it.
And never forget that I loved you more than my own life.
— Mama
The moment her eyes reach the final line, something inside her cracks — not loudly, not in a way anyone could hear, but in a way she feels deep in her ribs, like a bone giving way.
Her breath shivers out of her.
Her vision blurs.
The little lamp beside her bed flickers, casting gold light across her bedroom walls — pale pink, covered in drawings she made over the years. Outside the window, the night hums softly, the smell of the sea drifting in from the Italian coastline.
Her aunt had thrown her a birthday dinner a few hours ago. Balloons. A too-sweet cake. Laughter that felt forced around the edges. Everyone pretending they weren't thinking of what today meant besides turning twelve.
They'd hugged her. They'd smiled. But they all avoided one thing.
Her mother.
Now the house has gone quiet. The guests left. The candles burned out. Her aunt sleeps down the hall.
And Mira sits alone on her bed with the letter that tastes like heartbreak.
Tears slip down her cheeks silently, warm at first, then cold as they trail along her jaw. She presses her lips together to stop the sob that pushes up her throat.
Why… why would Mama write something like this?
Her fingers tighten around the letter.
Why vuk?
Why "someone made sure I wouldn't be there"?
Why tell her this now?
Her chest tightens as the night begins to pull old memories forward — memories she keeps locked behind doors she refuses to open.
But tonight, they break loose.
---
She remembers screaming.
Her mother's voice, weak but desperate:
"Mira! Stay back!"
The cold floor beneath her bare feet.
The clang of metal bars.
The echo of her tiny fists hitting the prison gate.
"Mama!" she had cried, her voice cracking, throat raw.
The guards pushing her aunt away.
Someone lifting her, carrying her out while she thrashed.
"I want my mama! Let me go! "Let me go"!"
Her mother's eyes — hollow yet still full of love — were the last thing she saw before she was dragged away.
Her mother's voice broke as she shouted one final thing:
"I love you! Always—"
And then… nothing.
Just the sound of Mira's own screams filling the night.
Mira jolts back into her room as if surfacing from underwater. Her breath is sharp, uneven, her cheeks wet again.
She wipes them quickly, as if someone might see — even though she's alone.
Her aunt knocks softly.
"Mira, tesoro? Are you still awake?"
Mira clears her throat and forces her voice steady.
"Y-yeah… just reading."
A pause. Then:
"Your mama loved you so much. Don't forget that."
The footsteps fade.
But Mira can't let the words go.
She looks at the letter again, her lips forming the name she doesn't understand.
"Vuk…"
The word feels wrong in her mouth, like something sharp she shouldn't touch.
Why did Mama warn her about that name?
Why did she say someone made sure she wouldn't be here?
Her head falls into her hands. She feels too small for this. Too young. Too full of questions with no answers.
She crawls under the blanket, clutching the letter against her chest.
Sunlight drips into her room in thin strands, warming her cheek. She blinks awake slowly, the events of the night rushing back the moment she sees the letter still in her hand.
Her aunt stands at the doorway, arms crossed gently, her expression soft but tired.
"Did you read it?" she asks.
Mira nods.
Her aunt sits beside her, smoothing a hand over Mira's hair.
"You're strong. Your mother knew you would be."
Mira hesitates, voice small.
"Aunt Lucia… who is Vuk?"
Lucia's hand pauses for a heartbeat — just long enough for Mira to notice.
Then the woman forces a small smile.
"Someone you must stay far away from."
"That's not an answer," Mira whispers, tightening her grip on the letter.
Lucia looks toward the window, as if the world outside might give her courage.
"If you knew everything now, it would poison your childhood. But one day… you'll understand."
Mira's eyes sting again.
"I want to know now."
"You will." Lucia's voice trembles, so slightly Mira almost misses it. "Just… not today."
Mira's heart drops.
"I miss her," she whispers.
Lucia pulls her into a hug — tight, warm, trembling.
"I know, tesoro. And that's why you must be careful. Your mother didn't die because she was guilty. She died because the wrong people feared the truth."
Mira freezes.
Lucia realizes she said too much. She swallows hard.
"Forget I said that."
"How can I?"
"You're twelve…" She brushes Mira's cheek. "You shouldn't have to carry the weight of adults."
But Mira sees it — the fear in her aunt's eyes.
The name Vuk sits in her mind like a dark seed.
One day, she will learn why.
One day, she will understand.
One day, she will face the truth.
But for now, she clutches the letter close to her heart — unaware of how much it will shape the woman she becomes...