The three of us kneel there in the quiet clearing, and the land hums beneath us in steady rhythm that no longer spikes with memory.
“I used to think she broke,” I admit, and the confession feels smaller now than it once did.
Axel’s fingers tighten slightly against my spine.
“She held too much,” he says.
“And she refused to distribute it,” Atticus finishes.
The difference lands cleanly.
I press my hand deeper into the soil, and the earth beneath my palm feels cool and solid and rooted.
“I thought if I was stronger,” I whisper, “she would not have died.”
The words are old.
Worn.
But they do not cut the same way they used to.
Axel kneels fully now, his other hand settling over mine where it presses into the dirt.
“She died holding suppression alone,” he says evenly.
“You did not
