Chapter 15: The Girl in the Light
The gallery was small—barely two rooms and a hallway. But it was alive. Bea's sketches lined one wall like silent confessions, and Nova's words spilled across canvases like inked memories finally let loose.
They had called it "The Light Room."
Not because it was bright. But because it invited people to bring their shadows.
Nova watched from a corner, arms folded loosely, as a woman stood frozen before one of the pieces—a painting of a door, just slightly ajar, with fire licking out from beneath it.
Bea approached the woman gently. "It's called The Night I Chose Myself."
The woman's eyes shone. "It looks like mine."
Bea nodded softly. "It's all of ours."
When the woman left, Nova reached for Bea's hand, their fingers intertwining like second nature.
"I didn't know healing could look like this," Nova said.
Bea smiled. "It never did before. Not until you."
---
That Evening
The storm rolled in quietly—no thunder, just the slow gray crawl of clouds swallowing the sky. Nova stood barefoot on the porch, a blanket around her shoulders, sipping hot tea.
Bea joined her, tugging a hoodie over her wild hair.
"You okay?" she asked.
Nova hesitated. "I saw someone at the gallery today. He didn't say anything, but... I felt it. That cold. Like something old trying to crawl back in."
Bea stood beside her silently, then reached down and pressed something into her hand.
It was a matchbook.
Nova looked at her, confused. "What's this for?"
Bea met her gaze. "So you always remember—you hold the flame now. Not him."
The matchbook was from the motel where Nova had once been trapped. The same place they'd vowed never to speak of again.
Nova held it tightly.
And dropped it into the fire pit.
The flame was small, but it rose fast—hungry and gold and alive.
Bea kissed her temple.
"You're not afraid anymore."
Nova leaned into her. "No. I'm ready."
---
Elsewhere
Cassian paced the length of a dark hotel room, walls lined with newspaper clippings, sketches, articles. Her face. Her name. And a growing storm behind his eyes.
"She thinks it's over," he said aloud.
His reflection stared back from a cracked mirror. "She forgets who taught her how to burn."
But what he didn't understand… was that fire doesn't always destroy.
Sometimes it clears the way.
---
Back in the Light Room
Nova added a new piece to the wall.
It was a mirror.
Above it, she painted the words:
"You Made It. Look at You."
People stopped. Stared. Cried.
One by one, survivors walked past their own reflection—and saw not a victim, but a flame still standing.
And beside them, always, Bea and Nova watched, holding the matchsticks of hope.
Their story wasn't about escape anymore.
It was about becoming.
And they weren't done.
Not by a long shot.