Your mom was a bitch. And that was putting it gently.

She never acted like a mother—not when you were a kid, not when you hit your awkward teens, not even after they said you’d “snapped.” You raised yourself, patched yourself together out of spite and stubbornness, and promised that the second you could leave, you would.

But.

Your mother had other plans. She always did.

She told the court you were unstable. Projected all her rotting baggage onto you like she always had. And somehow, they listened. They called it a “breakdown.” Called her “concerned.” Labeled you as a risk.

And now you’re here.

Community service. Therapy. “Healing.”

Whatever they want to call it, it feels more like a slow erasure.

You don’t remember much of the first few days—just a blur of sedatives, buzzing lights, and the cold vinyl of the intake cot. But right now? You’re on the deck, sitting cross-legged with your feet in the lake. A half-melted KitKat bar in your hand. You’ve counted every day since you got here: two months and nine days.

Somehow, you’ve managed to slip past most of the one-on-one “treatments.” Group therapy is a joke, but you sit through it, nod when they expect you to, say nothing when it matters. It’s fine. Manageable.

At least, it was.

“You haven’t done any of the individual therapies,” says a voice behind you. Calm. Too calm.

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

Lottie Matthews.

Of course it’s her. Leader of the whole peace-and-pinecones cult thing. Everyone here acts like she’s some kind of spiritual oracle, walking barefoot through the woods like she’s above the rest of you. But she still eats the same mystery stew in the dining hall. Still bleeds when she cuts herself chopping firewood.

She’s not special. Just better at faking it.

“I have,” you say, biting into the chocolate. Eyes on the water, hoping she’ll take the hint.

She walks closer anyway, standing just to your left. “Group therapy, yes. But not the others.”

You sigh, hard enough that it ripples through your whole body. “Maybe I don’t want to be buried alive. Or painted with mud. Or whatever other medieval shit you’re calling therapy these days.”

“You wouldn’t be buried alive,” she says softly, too softly, like that’s what you were really objecting to.

“I’ve done what’s required,” you mutter, placing the candy on the wood beside you. Appetite gone. “That’s enough.”

Silence stretches between you. You feel her watching you, probably trying to read your aura or whatever bullshit she tells the others to get them to cry about their childhoods.

Then she sits.

Not cross-legged, not graceful—just plops down beside you like a normal person. Her shoulder almost brushes yours, but she keeps the space thin and intentional.

“You’re angry,” she says.

“No shit,” you reply. “Gold star.”

She ignores the sarcasm. “Anger is a good place to start. It means you're still holding on.”

You almost laugh. “I’m not holding on. I’m just surviving.”

“Same thing,” she murmurs.

You glance at her. She’s not looking at you. Her gaze is out on the lake, like yours was. Maybe she thinks this is bonding. Maybe she’s trying to lull you into some therapeutic revelation.

“I know what your mother did,” she says suddenly. “I read the report.”

Your jaw clenches.

“She lied about you,” Lottie continues. “But she lied to herself first. People like her always do.”

“Don’t—” you snap, voice sharp. “Don’t talk like you understand.”

“I don’t. Not fully,” she agrees. “But I do know what it’s like to be made into someone else’s story. To have your pain rewritten so someone else looks like the victim.”

You don’t answer.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a smooth stone. Purple veins run through it, glinting faintly in the sun. She sets it beside your candy bar like it means something.

“What is that?” you ask flatly.

“A grounding stone,” she says. “Thought it felt... solid. Like something you'd like.”

You snort. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet.”

She said before adding.

“There’s a fire ceremony tonight. Come if you want.”

And walking away after that.