The rain won’t quit. It needles the windows of this tiny flat like it’s trying to get in. Ingrid’s asleep on the couch, curled around her jacket instead of me. She said the air smells like endings. I didn’t have the nerve to tell her it’s just my mother’s perfume—the same floral bite that lingers even after Esther leaves a room.
We spoke today. First time in months. She asked if I’d found what I was looking for. I said “peace.” She laughed that tired, holy laugh of hers, the one that sounds like a confession disguised as a hymn. She still thinks I’m chasing ghosts instead of answers. Maybe she’s right. Maybe ghosts are all I have the patience for.
Ingrid doesn’t understand our conversations, and I don’t blame her. She sees Esther as another weight I refuse to drop. But blood has its own language, older than logic. Every time I try to let go, I hear my mother’s voice in my head: You were meant for fire, not comfort.
I love Ingrid for staying. She knows I’m split between two women—the one who gave me life and the one trying to give me a future. She doesn’t compete. She just waits, like a lighthouse in someone else’s storm.
The city feels different tonight. The neon doesn’t glare; it glows softer, almost forgiving. Maybe it’s the rain. Maybe it’s me. I’m learning that survival isn’t strength—it’s surrender in disguise.
Esther once told me that God hides in the ashes because that’s where the light looks honest. I didn’t understand then. I think I’m starting to.
Tomorrow I’ll see her again. Not to argue. Just to listen. Maybe forgiveness starts that way—quiet, unannounced, somewhere between thunder and dawn.
— Moses C.
