She doesn't speak.
Not right away.
Silence here has always weighed more than words.
She stays still, arms crossed beneath her soaking coat, nails digging into the skin of her palms as if physical pain could leash the one roaring in her chest.
The stone is there. Cracked. Cold.
Almost arrogant in its refusal to answer.
"Veronica Brown – 1977–2009."
Numbers.
That's all that remains of a woman who set a world on fire.
Aliya swallows. Slowly. As if even swallowing the air around her cost something.
The rain lashes her cheeks, mingling with her silent tears. She doesn't know which burns more.
Hi, Mom.
Or what's left of you.
She lets the words float in her head. She doesn't say them out loud. They would be too loud. Too true.
See? I came back.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I had no choice.
She could have left without saying a word. Let this rotten town collapse under its own venom.
But no. She had to come here. Face the grave.
Face the one who gave her life and let that same life devour her alive.
Nine years.
Nine damn years carrying your name like a curse sewn onto my skin.
Taking hits for sins that aren't mine.
And the worst is I keep apologizing for existing.
She closes her eyes. Behind her lids, faces. Spits. Gazes that don't see a girl, but a living reminder of horror.
She wanted to scream. But even her anger is tired.
Do you know what it's like, Mom? To live knowing people secretly hope you'll die every time you enter a room?
She grits her teeth.
I didn't ask to be born from you. I didn't ask to carry your shame, to be your toxic legacy.
A dry, broken laugh escapes her.
But congratulations. Even dead, you're still the most present. Your ghost is a better parent than my own father
She drops a flower. Black. Wilted.
A symbolic gesture for a relationship that never really existed.
I'm leaving, Mom. I'm leaving this hole.
Cambridge accepted me.
I'm going to live your dream, even if you abandoned it halfway.
Her lips tremble. But not from sadness.
From rage.
From liberation.
From everything she held too long beneath her skin.
This world spat on me.
But I'm going to take root here anyway.
I'm going to bleed it dry of every opportunity and force it to look at me.
She takes a step back. Her heart pounds against her ribcage like an animal sensing the way out.
So it's over.
Goodbye, Mom.
Goodbye to the broken girl you left behind.
I am no longer your reflection.
I am what you never had the courage to be.
The rain intensifies, pounding the earth like divine punishment.
She turns.
The metallic clang of the gates behind her echoes like a sentence.
And she doesn't look back.
Never.