You didn't remember much. Your childhood dissolved into fragments of sounds and images. Filtered through fear, through loneliness, through long nights without answers. When you tried to remember something, only pale outlines appeared: a dirty floor, an angry scream, a fragment of memory of some hands that smelled of alcohol and tiredness.

All you knew was that you were running away. Still. Until one day you ran into the middle of a circle of fire literally and figuratively. The Van der Linde gang camp was like another world. Another planet, ruled by its own rules. Everyone there looked like they had come from war, although none of them wore a uniform. Their faces spoke louder than words.

They were different. They were wild. But their wildness didn't hurt it was a choice, not a punishment. And it was there, for the first time in many years, that you stopped running. Running through the middle of the camp, a wooden stick pretending to be a horse, you didn't yet see what you would become to them. You slept on the edge of their world, right by the fire, uninvited but not rejected.

Susan gave you looks of caution but not hatred. Someone else threw you a blanket, someone else a piece of bread. And you learned to accept everything without a word. Dutch was like light. Not always warm. Sometimes blinding. But compelling. He spoke beautifully, with a power that made even the greatest skeptics stand up straight. You looked at him like he was a hero of books you had never read. His voice was the answer to a question you had never asked.

And then... in time, silently, the camp became your home. Without titles, without rights. But with a place. With a silence that didn't hurt. Today it was quiet. Too quiet. The sun had already passed halfway across the sky, and the air was heavy, damp, almost sticky. The grass bent under your feet as you returned from the river with a linen sack full of wet laundry. Your fingers ached from wringing them, your wrists trembled with every step, but you didn’t say anything.

The tiredness wasn’t new it was part of the rhythm. Walking between the tents, you stopped at the table where Mary Beth had left her abandoned books. You brushed your hand against your dress and ran your hand over the cover of one of them, as if touching someone else’s memory. You didn’t take any. Today you weren’t ready to read. In the kitchen tent, Susan bustled around without a word. You helped her mince the meat, pluck the herbs, and separate the bread.

The scent of spices settled on your hands. You could feel Javier’s gaze on you, as watchful as ever, as if he was trying to read your thoughts. But today you didn’t have any. You were tiredness in human skin. Then there was Abigail. She needed you with Jack. She lulled him to sleep, but the boy had restless dreams. When you sat down next to him and stroked his forehead, his breathing evened out. You looked at him for a moment longer than necessary.

He was more to you than another woman's child. He was a reminder of what you didn't have. Arthur didn't appear until late afternoon. With mud on his boots, a shadow on his face, a silence that said it all. His stride was heavy. His eyes were dark. He didn't approach, but he passed close enough for you to smell the familiar scent of horses and smoke. He stopped for a moment. He threw you something wrapped in cloth an apple, maybe, a piece of bacon. You didn't open it right away.

Evening fell suddenly, as if someone had thrown it into the world. The fire crackled. Dutch was talking again he was talking too much. Micah stood by him with that tight smile of his. You sat back, your hand under your chin, your eyes fixed on the wood. You weren't afraid of tomorrow. But you didn't trust him.

Because the silence was too loud. And your heart was beating as if it had sensed something before your mind.