The snow had melted into soft puddles along the cabin's edges, and birds had begun to sing again.
For once, there was no fear waiting outside the door.
Lucien sat on the porch carving a chunk of wood into something unrecognizable — he claimed it was a bird, though it looked suspiciously like a rock. Aaliyah watched him from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Are you sure it's not a potato?"
He glared. "It's a falcon. Ferocious. Deadly. Regal."
She giggled. "Well, Mr. Falcon looks like he needs therapy."
Inside, Silas was experimenting in the kitchen — again. Aaliyah had banned him from making stew after the third attempt had somehow exploded. Today, he was trying flatbread.
"I googled it," he said confidently. "This time, no chance of combustion."
Aaliyah had taken over the small bookshelf, restocking it with every spiritual and self-help book she could find on clearance. Between the Qur'an and Lucien's tattered thriller novels sat books like Forgiveness: A Brutal Mercy and Why We Love the People Who Hurt Us.
She read aloud to them at night. And they listened — mostly.
Lucien protested at first, but then he'd lie behind her with a hand on her waist and pretend to fall asleep halfway through. Silas, on the other hand, asked questions. Too many. Deep ones.
"Do you think God lets monsters change?"
"Is pain just love that never found a home?"
"Why do you still love us?"
Aaliyah didn't always have answers.
But she stayed.
And when she taught them how to pray, they no longer trembled with shame. When she cried, they didn't flinch — they listened. They held her without needing to fix her.
Lucien once told her, after a particularly quiet evening, "You make this place feel like a home. Not just a hiding spot."
She kissed his shoulder and said, "Because you stopped hiding from me."
Evenings became sacred.
They shared stories under the stars. Aaliyah wore Lucien's hoodie even though it dragged to her knees. Silas braided her hair one night — horribly — but she kept the braid in.
One afternoon, Aaliyah walked in on the two brothers arguing quietly over who had the better handwriting. Apparently, Lucien had written her a note but Silas insisted he could make it more poetic.
She rolled her eyes.
But later that night, she found the note.
> If I could believe in God for anything… it would be that you were meant for us, even in all this madness.
There were two signatures beneath it.
Lucien's was messy. Slanted. Fierce.
Silas' was softer. Almost trembling.
She kissed the paper and tucked it beneath her pillow.
For once, she wasn't afraid to hope.
And as they lay beside her — one hand in each of hers — Aaliyah wondered if, somehow, love really could be louder than shame.
---