But how could anything in Kaya's life ever be simple?
She only smiled, watching them. She didn't say a word. The women were laughing, chatting about ordinary things, the kind that made nights feel softer than they really were.
Then one of them, who had been quietly studying Kaya's hand, suddenly spoke.
"Oh dear, how many scars do you have on your hand?"
Kaya's ears burned. For some reason, that simple question felt hotter than any flame.
"Kaya?" Hilary called gently.
Kaya just shook her head and forced a small smile. "Oh, no, no, it's okay. I just… got injured while living alone."
Hearing that, the women frowned and glanced at one another. Then the same woman spoke again, her tone slipping into something faintly motherly.
"Child… did you get hurt often?"
The chatter around them slowed, like someone had quietly closed a door. The laughter faded to a distant murmur. Kaya's smile didn't disappear, but it thinned—polite, practiced, carefully held in place.
