What's wrong with her?
I had learned early that silence was safer. Silence didn't draw attention. Silence didn't make them look at me too long.
My fingers paused over Ash's bowl.
Back then, my voice could vanish for weeks at a time, like it had slipped somewhere deep inside my chest and refused to come back out. Teachers called it defiance. My mother called it embarrassing. No one thought to ask what I was afraid of.
I was already taller than most of them, all long limbs with nowhere to put them, and a silent giant was an easy target.
I stood out in every class photo, rising awkwardly from the back row like I'd been placed there by mistake. Borrowed clothes never fit right — sleeves too short, hems too high, fabric stretched thin in ways that made me want to fold in on myself. Boys asked if I played basketball like it was the only explanation for a girl built like me. Girls whispered "Lanky" behind locker doors, not quietly enough.
I learned to hunch. To make myself smaller in doorways. To sit with my knees pulled in tight. To walk with my head down so my height looked accidental instead of offensive.
Losing my voice didn't feel like a choice back then. It felt like the only way to take up less space in a world that already thought I took up too much.
I set the bowl into Ash's enclosure and watched him hop closer, curious but cautious. I stroked a finger lightly along the edge of Ash's perch. He didn't flinch. He just blinked slowly.
"Your silence helped you survive," my therapist said. "We don't shame survival skills. We just teach your body that it doesn't have to use them all the time anymore."
I swallowed, throat tight.
No one had protected me when I was small. No one had lowered their voice or softened their movements. No one had noticed how hard I was trying just to exist without being seen.
I learned to read rooms the way other children learned to read books — tracking footsteps, tone shifts, the weight of a sigh from the other side of a wall. I learned how to shrink without moving, how to hold my breath so quietly it felt like disappearing.
I yearned for a feeling of safety and love, but I didn't have words for that back then. I only knew I was always bracing. Always waiting for the next sharp sound, the next look that lingered too long, the next laugh that wasn't kind.
When Ellis came into my life, I thought — just for a while — that maybe I had finally found it.
He had been gentle, very soft-voiced, and patient. For the first time, I felt understood. Maybe that is why I didn't communicate enough. I had started to believe I was safe and that was the cruelest part.
While I was lost in thought, July stepped closer. I didn't move away. Her arms came around me gently. She was one of the very few people I could stand being held by. Her hugs were always warm and steady.
At first my body stayed stiff out of habit, shoulders high, breath shallow. Then, little by little, the tension drained. My forehead rested lightly against her shoulder since I was taller. I could hear her breathing, slow and even, like she was lending it to me.
"I found the things you bought for me," she murmured against my shoulder. "The ear-warmer headband, the gloves, the insulated travel mug... because you noticed morning walks can be chilly. Thank you." She murmured. "I love you, sweetie. You have a heart of gold. Let it shine, April."
The words settled somewhere deep. I nodded against her. I pressed my fingers lightly into the fabric at her back. It was my version of holding on.
When I went to my bedroom, I opened an empty small wooden box where I used to keep old fragments of my life and placed the Red Jasper inside.
I closed the lid gently and smiled softly.
Chapter 13: Rock Hero
Two weeks later, I was back to splitting my time between the office and the field.
The ranger station was quiet when I arrived, early light stretching across the map-covered tables and the orderly rows of filing cabinets. I set my bag down beside my desk and went straight to the patrol logs, scanning the previous day's wildlife reports. Several bird nests had been disturbed by wind, and a section of Ridge Trail was flagged for mud after overnight rain. I marked inspection points, updated the fire risk layer on the map, and noted which paths would need hazard checks before the weekend hikers arrived.
The routine steadied me. Maps made sense. Terrain made sense.
I coordinated volunteer assignments next, confirmed two trail maintenance permits, and began outlining my late-morning patrol route. My finger traced contour lines on the map, following elevation shifts and water runoff areas where footing might be unstable.
A shadow fell across the desk.
"Morning, April," the chief said gently. "Ellis called in before sunrise. He flagged the northern trail as slippery after last night's rain and already posted caution signs along the steep bends and the wooden footbridge. He also cleared a fallen branch near marker twelve so no one trips on it."
I paused, pen hovering over the map.
